i'll be a soldier, but i can't fight without you
by Pieequals36
Summary: Freddie tries to figure it all out, Sam's happy to run. Continuation of iOMG, like you needed another one of those.
1. Prologue

**Title**: i'll be a soldier, but i can't fight without you

**Rating: **T

**Summary:** My continuation of iOMG *hears echoes of groans considering lack of orginality*. I know, I know but guys I can't help it. That kiss was freaking perfect.

**A/N:** I want this to be a multi-chapter but I'm not so sure it should be. I'm not sure it's up to par. This isn't a pathetic attempt at garnering more reviews, I'm honestly just not sure whether it's worth continuing or if it's fine left where it is at the end. If you guys call for it, I'll continue it, deal?

_/what do you do when your hearts in two places/_

He looks at her like she's just lost her mind. Like there's nothing crazier in the world she could do, or could have done, than kiss him.

And maybe she is crazy. Maybe she fell the wrong way off the emotional precipice she teetered on only minutes ago. Maybe she has finally gone to the wrong side bizarre. But if she did, at least she'll know. She'll know if she was right to take a chance. She'll know how he feels.

Sam does not like relinquishing control but she will admit that in this instance she has_ none_ of it. What happens next is entirely in his hands, the ball is in his court and whatever other pathetic euphemism she can think of that describes his hold on her heart. A year ago she would have laughed in the face of anyone that told her she should want for Freddie Benson's approval. That she would stand in front of him completely at his mercy, her heart on the line. The notion seems ridiculous even now. She tries not to laugh at the absurdity, swallowing the sound in an odd cough like splutter that raises his eyebrows. She wonders if he thinks she's laughing at him, and oddly uncomfortable under his bemused stare, she shuffles and forces a smile which even to her does not feel genuine.

"I…" he repeats, still focused on her eyes. She wishes he wouldn't do that. She remembers some crap Carly told her once about the eyes being the window to your soul and (not that she_ believes_ it) she really doesn't want to take that chance. Mostly because she is afraid that her soul (if she has one), is rotten through and through and not that it really bothers _her_, but of late she worries it would bother him. It stirs something inside her, a concern that he sees her, genuinely views her as that_ sort_ of person. This new feeling is making her _want_ to be a better person. She shudders at the thought. She has this sudden need to impress him, to make him see her in the way he sees Carly. So she did things differently, little things, but he noticed. Just not in the way she wanted him to (_what way do you want him to see you?_). He thought she was plotting, believed there was some ulterior motive and it makes her question herself in a way she never did before. He was abrupt and brash when querying her on it and she wonders if she deserved it. She hasn't really given him any other reason to trust her. It's a niggling thought and the recognition of it weighs heavy. She then asks herself, does she have any other motives? Is she being false and devious in an entirely different way? The methods are different but she wonders if the goal is the same. The new Sam Puckett, a false pretense in order to get what_ she_ wants, entirely selfish and utterly deceitful. She likes to believe she's changing for the better but what she wants to believe and what she actually does are two entirely different entities.

Because that's another thing, it's just how he makes her want to change. There are certain _other_ factors at play. For example, she has become acutely aware of how tanned his skin is and how soft his hair looks (honestly, would it be _so _bad if she just threw him down and ran her fingers through it, just to see?) and every time he brushes up against her or reaches over her to get a prop (when did he get so tall?) she feels a little dizzy. At first she thought her abhorrence of him had finally overwhelmed her and she had developed some odd Benson allergic reaction, but then she realized: if it was such a horrible feeling, why did she go out of her way to educe it again? She would deliberately stand in front of his locker and refuse to move so he would have to reach over to get his books, she would sometimes (not often) let him win their frequent wrestling matches just to feel the weight of his body on hers and was becoming more and more mindful that this was _not _right. It wasn't just being close to him that was the problem. She was beginning to _enjoy_ his company. Despite everything to force him to the contrary, Benson was being nice to her. He held doors, pulled out chairs, walked to the outside of the curb all in an effort to be a gentleman. When she thinks of it now, it is kind of charming. She still called him a nub though - some things can't change.

On occasion, Sam Puckett did think about kissing Fredward Benson before aforementioned event. Those occasions started becoming more frequent and less far between but it was still _on occasion. _It wasn't consuming her or taking up all her time. She hardly sat staring at his mouth in class or dreaming about him in bed at night. She could still function, just not in the Sam like way she had before. Now that she's actually done it she wonders if she can go back. She wants to press the rewind button because with the way he his looking at her now, she does not want to see how the rest of this plays out. Mostly because she thinks she knows how it will. He'll be sweet and kind (because that's all Freddie knows) and he'll let her down gently. Something along the lines of "I don't feel the same" or "I love Carly", something rational and true but something that will inevitably twist in her gut like a six inch blade slicing through ice-cream. Suddenly she's angry, irrationally angry at the thought. What was she thinking? Why would he possibly want her over Carly? Why is he so obsessed with her best friend? Why hasn't he said anything?

Her face falters and her lips twist into a scowl he knows all too well.

"You know what Benson? Forget it!" she snaps without any real justification and leaving the boy even more bewildered with the turn of events. She pushes past him and back into the school, not noticing Carly hiding behind the doorframe.

Sam wonders if she is running from Freddie or herself. Comparisons to Carly Shay are all too harsh in the deathly hours of night and perhaps stir something in her she would much rather keep down and hidden. She knows if Freddie conducts the same assessment he will reach the same conclusion and that, above all else, terrifies her. The idea he will reject her on the basis of failing to stand up to Carly sized measurements is something that doesn't sit well. At least if he said "sorry, but you're just too awful a human being" at least then she would not be compared to anyone else but herself. If she's going to lose, it has to be on her own merit. She keeps moving until she reaches the back emergency stairwell, climbing up on a rickety chair to disable the security alarm above the double grey doors.

Once through she finally takes a breath, long and hard. It feels like she hadn't breathed in at least fifteen minutes. She wishes when she kissed him it hadn't felt so inexplicably _right_. She wishes that it had have been a let down; a realization that her crush was some misguided attempt in procuring a boyfriend. Instead all she felt was buzzing and humming and every other corny thing they talk about on television. Truthfully, she's scared. Sam always considers herself brave and impetuous but in this instance she is simply terrified. She wonders if she can find her way out now. If he rejects her is that the closure she needs to finally move on? First loves, she concludes, shouldn't be this hard. First loves should be fluid, easy, new and innocent.

_This_ already feels complicated.

* * *

><p>"Have you seen Sam?"<p>

Freddie grabs Carly's elbow, guiding her into the corner. Blowing a limp strand of coal black hair from her eyes she already looks irritated. He dreads to think what she'll be like when she knows. He debated not telling her (hell a huge part of him doesn't want to tell her) but eventually he decided in the name of friendship, trust and all that other nonsense she spouts on about, it was in all their interests that he just tell the truth. And quite honestly he could do with the insight. He does worry of her reaction; a small part hopes she will be jealous, another part hopes that she isn't just so this can't get any more complicated. He decides to come straight out with it before he changes his mind.

"She kissed me!"

Carly doesn't look even a little bit stunned and he wonders once again if this is all one big joke that he's not in on. Some late April fool's thing that is absolutely masterful and horrifically cruel at the same time.

"Huh," she huffs, crossing her arms.

"Didn't you hear what I said? Sam. Kissed. Me."

"I heard you, I just said 'huh'," she reminds him, looking distractedly at the door.

"And you don't look surprised because…."

"Because I caught your happy lip dance in real time, full HD. Shame I didn't bring 3D glasses!" she rants in that adorable Carly way of hers that makes him want hush her with a kiss. He wonders if thoughts like those are inappropriate now and is foolishly worried that somewhere, somehow Sam knows what he just thought and is hurt. The idea doesn't sit well and he ponders as to whether it is something he'll have to get used to now.

"Uh…you wouldn't need 3D glasses."

"What?" she scowls, brow furrowed.

"Because…life is in 3D. That's why we wear glasses in the cinema. To turn 2 dimensional images int-"

"Freddie!" she scolds, uninterested in his correction.

"Sorry."

"So?"

"So?"

"So? How long has this been going on?" she interrogates with a raised brow. He knows that look. Whatever answer he gives now will not be enough to quell the anger swelling within. He just braces himself for the onslaught.

"Nothing has been going on."

"Oh really?" she asks, taking a step closer.

"Yes."

"Oh _really_?" she repeats, taking another step.

"Ye-es." He emphasizes.

"Re-eally?"

"Oh my God, Carls," he stops her, exasperated, "Nothing was happening behind your back. Sam _just _kissed me. Like there now. I didn't even see it coming…here's me rambling on about feelings and taking chances and the next thing I know she's _on _me. All lips and hands."

She regroups, leaning back on her hip with crossed arms.

"Ok….so Sam's in love with you?" she clarifies.

"No! Yes. Maybe…I don't know! This is Sam for god's sake! This could be some bizarre, insane form of mental torture!"

"And…." She drags off, inhaling sharply, "Do you love her?"

_That_ question catches him off guard. _Does he love her? _ Well, yes, probably somewhere in his befuddled boy heart he holds a special place for his friend/sometimes foe. But does he _love _her? That's where the question becomes infinitely more complicated than he would like. Loving her right now, he can answer a resounding no. The potential for loving her in the future? Well that's alive and kicking violently. Freddie can never claim he has not thought about it. After their first kiss it was all he thought about. After he danced with Carly it was _all _he thought about. After Sam's speech about bacon, Carly and relationships, again, it was all he thought about. But never before had the existence of something else between them been so tangible, so real. Carly notes his hesitation and her eyes narrow.

"Freddie?"

"I'm not in love with her…" he drags off.

"But?"

"But…I mean. The kiss…wasn't _that_ bad. And Sam, ya know contrary to what I might have said before, isn't completely horrible…."

"You like her!" Carly accuses shrilly.

"I…no! I don't….know," he stammers, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm still scared of her."

"What are you saying? Are you going to ask her out?"

"I don't know. I just…need to talk to her."

Carly falls silent, her foot tapping against the garish blue of the classroom tiles. She stares at him considering something behind dark brown eyes and he realizes he just can't stay silent and not ask.

"You ok?"

"Yeah. Why I wouldn't I be? I mean my two _best _friends just _made out_ in the courtyard, totally out of the blue, and now one of them is telling me he's considering asking the other out and everything's going to change and be _completely _weird and different and…."

"Carly."

"Let me finish! And…and it's ok," she breathes after her lengthy rant. Out of every possible scenario, every way that outburst could have ended; Freddie did not foresee composure and acceptance.

"It's…ok? You mean - you're ok?"

"Yeah. I mean, like I said, it's weird and I don't think I've fully processed yet, but you know what I said to Sam before she went out to the courtyard and…well you know, you were there. I told her I wanted her to be happy. Why should that change because the person that makes her happy isn't the person I thought it was?"

Silence radiates between them and he could answer in an immeasurable number of ways with endless numbers of consequences, but he bites his tongue. Pointing out their colorful history would not serve to un-complicate an already complicated situation.

"Do you want to speak with her first?"

"No," Carly laughs humorlessly, "Trust me, I'm probably the _last _person she wants to see about now."

"You're her best friend," Freddie states, perplexed.

"Yeah and she couldn't tell me it was you she was in love with," she reminds him with a sigh, "She's not ready to talk to me yet. She needs to be ready. And she won't be until you two clear things up. When that happens…we'll talk."

"Ok," Freddie agrees reluctantly backing away, "I'm gonna go find her. Wish me luck?"

Carly smiles, soft and genuine. "Good luck. Go easy on her yeah? Even if she acts out and punches you…and stay away from barns."

"I'll bear that all in mind." His attempt at a smile is swallowed up by a nervous disposition and instead he frowns, his brain preempting the conversation ahead and the conversation he is leaving behind.

Sam Puckett, even with innocent intentions, has an uncanny knack for complicating things.

* * *

><p>"Well, well," a voice says from behind her, "Many could construe what just happened as a hit and run. You're lucky I'm not suing."<p>

Freddie Benson's lame attempt at a joke (_honestly, why does she even like this nub?_) falls flat in an already weighted atmosphere and she refuses to even turn to acknowledge him.

"Oh come on, that was some of my best material," he tries again, "Not even a smile?"

"Go. _Away_."

"No chance," he replies, determined, "See I have this problem now. And the problem is a good friend of mine just kissed me. Out of the blue. No warning. And then, when I was trying to process everything, get it all straight in my head, she throws a tantrum and runs away."

He moves forward, staring down at the back of her head trying to will her to turn around. Alas, Samantha Puckett is still as stubborn as ever. He gives in a little (he supposes she already took more of a risk today than he has in his entire life) and he falls down, sitting beside her on the stairwell.

"Are you deaf or retarded or something? I _said-_"

"Go away. Yeah, I heard you the first time," he sighs, exasperated. "Sam. What was that?"

"What was what?" Playing dumb never suited Sam, mostly because she was too bright to pull it off.

"_You know_," he stresses, ducking his head to try and catch her gaze, "The whole mouth assault thing you just pulled?"

She groans, loud and sudden and he has the undeniable urge to shake the petulant little girl out of her.

"I knew you'd be a total nub about this," she mutters, her fingers tracing circles on the concrete steps.

"I'm being a total nub?" he chuckles, incredulous.

"Yes, you are," she spits back, "wanting to talk about our _feelings _and chiz."

"Sam! You can't turn this around on me."

"Dude I saw your face!"

"Huh?" he asks dumbly.

"Your face. After the kiss. I get it, I understand. We're cool. I just need some time on my own that's all."

"Ok Sam, you lost me somewhere around faces," he sighs again, heavier this time.

"I saw you. You looked…grossed out."

An awkward silence passes and he tries to remember if he has ever seen her this vulnerable before. It's not something he likes and certainly not something he could grow accustomed to. No matter how many times she hurts him, he does not relish in doing the same to her.

"I wasn't…I was just…." He drags off, "I was just surprised."

She laughs but it's dry and sullen. "Surprised? Hmm."

"It's true!" he cried defensively, "I mean, c'mon. I thought you hated me. You haven't exactly given me any reason to think otherwise."

"As you so aptly documented earlier."

"Sam, please." It's a tired, frustrated plea and it doesn't fall on deaf ears. Her façade cracks a little and she lifts her head, slowly meeting swirling chocolate irises.

"What do you want to know?" Her question is choked and forced, something she doesn't want to ask but knows she has to.

"Well….do you…I mean are you in love with me?"

She's silent, her gaze retreating back to the cold hard stone. She considers her answer carefully; she could lie, tell him that no she isn't and this is all a big misunderstanding, one she wants to rectify accordingly. Or she could be honest. She doesn't often choose honesty especially when it comes to protecting her feelings; if she is honest they are exposed and she is vulnerable. She felt it when she kissed him and she feels it now, except now she knows there's no running away. She cannot go back.

"I dunno," she mumbles with a shrug. To hell with being specific.

"You dunno?" he repeats skeptically.

"Yeah. I don't know. I mean…I feel _something._"

"Like what?"

"Like…like sometimes I think you're cute. And sometimes I think you're smart. And sometimes the way you bite your stupid lip when you stupidly check your stupid iCarly equipment is stupidly adorable."

"Huh. Weird how you think someone so stupid can be attractive," he smirks with a raised brow.

"I may think you're cute Benson but does not mean that I won't mess up that cute face of yours if you push me to it," she warns, narrowing her eyes.

"I can't believe you think I'm cute." His smirk breaks out into a wide grin and when she punches his arm and he thinks he may never feel below the elbow, it feels normal again. _They_ feel normal.

"I think we have just broken the record for the number of times cute has been said in a conversation," she chuckles lamely, biting on her lower lip. He has the ridiculous urge to touch her there and it's new and foreign and something he cannot fathom.

"So…what do you want to happen?" he broaches the subject gingerly, not wanting to startle her. She shrugs again, averting her eyes to her hands.

"I don't think it matters what I want to happen," she murmurs quietly, "So far, I don't have a clue what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking….I'm thinking that the kiss wasn't _that _horrible," he teases half-heartedly, "And I'm thinking _you _are not that horrible."

"Wow," she chortles, "You're such a smooth talker Benson."

"Tomorrow is Saturday."

"And smart too, did I mention you're smart?"

"Listen a second Puckett," he instructs with an impatient growl and she feels something pool in her stomach, a burning that she struggles to handle. "Tomorrow is Saturday. And I have no plans - none."

"What a gripping social life you do lead," she quips with a playful smirk of her own.

"You wanna make plans together?"

The question catches her off guard and she stops tracing patterns on her knees, her eyes widening slightly at the prospect of what he has just suggested. Indeed his own brain motors over the potential consequences of such a suggestion, least of all the damage it could do to their already fragile relationship if it goes wrong. And if he was honest, a Freddie Benson and Sam Puckett union had a good chance of going _very _wrong. Because of this a large part of him hopes she will say no, but an even larger irrefutable part sort of hopes she will say yes, simply out of morbid curiosity.

"S'pose. As long as we don't have to do anything nubish."

He's not sure why but his heart rate speeds up, his stomach lurching. He realizes the pressure on him then and the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He hasn't just offered to date any girl; he has offered to take none other than _Samantha Puckett_ out on a social venture. There's an absurdity there that evokes laughter and a reality that arouses caution.

"Ok," he breathes out and it's then he realizes his hands are shaking, "Ok. So….it's a date?"

She nods the affirmative and he wishes she would stop chewing on her lower lip like that. It only draws his attention to places his boy mind should not be. He stands to leave.

"Will we get back to our project then?"

He starts to head for the double doors before an utterance from her lips grinds him to a sharp halt.

"Carly."

It comes out as barely a whisper, a croaking noise bouncing off the bare stairwell walls.

"What about her?" he says as coolly as he can manage.

"Well, do think…I mean. What about…."

He raises his eyebrows expectantly, wondering if she can phrase the question better than he can. They both know they're thinking it.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter."

Evidently she can't.

"C'mon. Brad's waiting," he ushers, escaping back into the school hallway.

* * *

><p>Back in the classroom, he can't stop staring. He knows he's doing it; in fact he is horribly aware he is obsessively tracing her movements back and forth. He also knows <em>she <em>knows, what with the way a smile curls on her lips every time she walks past him. He wonders if she is teasing, wonders if she's doing it on purpose. Truthfully, he's desperately trying to figure her out. He is still baffled and dazed by the sharp turn in events, struggling to comprehend her feelings never mind his own.

"You're staring Benson," she whispers with a grin when she reaches over him for some wires. Her skin brushes against his wrist and it makes his own skin pimple with goose bumps. He can't deny the electricity there and she's so absurdly close that if he leaned in just so they could recreate earlier courtyard events right there in the classroom. Instead, she pulls away, still smiling.

He knows it's the start of something and a change in everything else. If he is ready or not is an entirely different consideration.

* * *

><p><strong>Ok, so what did we think? Orginally I wanted to do a chapter after this about said first date, but maybe this is ok as a standalone? Also a quick mention of thanks to Emma and Josh whose endless chats keep me sane and motivated to keep writing. Mostly because their motivation and talent makes me jealous. And to my good friend Beth whose updates come so fast and furious I can barely keep up. I hate her really. Do check out their stuff though (the earl of sandwich, aussiemaa, &amp; pigwiz), I can personally guarantee you will not be disappointed. And one more bit of shameless pimping: ChampagneScene is writing again! Yayers! Go check her out, encourage her to not disappear again ;) Ok my pretties, fly! FLY!<strong>


	2. Fireworks

_/cos baby you're a firework/_

He is on time. Of course the nub _has _to be on time.

Sam's first resort is to condemn him for his nerdish punctuality rather than chastise herself for her usual tardiness. It isn't that she intended on being late – first, there was her mother's request for Sam to drive her to the hospital from her botched Botox appointment (regardless of whether or not Sam actually _owned_ a driving license). Then there was that Goddamn cake place with the delicious red velvet sponge that she just couldn't _not_ spend the afternoon in, and finally after leaving said cake bakery she quickly realized she had spent all her money and thus had no fare for the bus ride over to Carly's. While it all seemed like a rather convoluted excuse to escape the inevitable, she insists it wasn't (because she isn't nervous or anything). But with the way Carly looked at her when she _finally _arrived – all judgmental and frustrated – she knew then she needed to try harder. Hence why she is now standing in the shortest black mini dress she has ever seen with Carly hanging large rollers from the stop of her head. Usually she would tell her best friend that such effort is completely unnecessary (it is Freddie after all, not Prince Charming) and that she wouldn't be caught dead in something that looks like it should be an outfit in a Britney Spears video. However, keeping in mind that it is _Freddie _she's going out on a date with, she supposes it could not hurt to look a little bit like the brunette to her left in the mirror. After all, she reflects, the Samantha Puckett's of the world aren't really his type.

"I feel like a tootsie roll," she announces with a grumble, pinching the skintight fabric at her hips.

"You look adorable," Carly corrects, unrolling a section of blonde locks, "Besides. Knowing Freddie he's probably going to take you out to some fancy restaurant on a boat somewhere so you need to look appropriate. I remember when _we_ were dating he-"

Sam's eyes fly to Carly's in the glass reflection and the silence that erupts after that one statement casts a more than sufficient awkwardness between the two friends. Carly is the first to retreat when she casts her eyes back to expertly rolled hair, toying with it absently.

"Is this…is this weird for you?" Sam asks, finally addressing the elephant in the room (well rather the two-ton elephant, _sitting_ on them, strangling them with his trunk). The other girl shrugs and follows it with a quick shake of the head, which is none too convincing.

"No," she insists weakly, "I told you. I want you to be happy."

"I wasn't trying to steal him or nothin'," Sam claims very suddenly. And she means it. There isn't a part of her, no matter how small, that would want to hurt the most important person in her infinitesimal world. She cared for very few and she would happily admit that Carly Shay probably topped that list. Her problem was vocalizing such a thought; Sam is a woman of action, not words. As evident by the events at the lock-in, she prefers grand gestures to long, meaningful talks. Carly knows this better than anyone (at least Sam hopes she does). The brunette reaches around her friend's neck with a delicate looking silver necklace, locking it there. Her arms come around again, this time in a loose embrace, her chin resting on her shoulder.

"You deserve this," Carly tells her solemnly, holding her gaze in the reflection, "You deserve him."

Very little affects Sam emotionally, it takes a lot to evoke cries and/or laughter, but she feels wetness sting her eyes and has to blink several times to banish the threat of tears. Instead she reaches up and hooks her palm over her friends forearm with an affectionate rub.

"Get off me you big Nub," she chokes out, detangling herself from her embrace. She tries to forget that Carly barely managed a denial.

"Lets go let Freddie in," Carly sniffles in, wiping her hands off her jeans, "He's bound to be tired of waiting outside."

"If Freddie wants a date with Mamma, the boy needs to learn how to wait," Sam mumbles, giving herself one last disapproving look up and down in the mirror. It's not lost on Carly and she gives a reassuring smile, guiding her best friend out of the bedroom and down into the living room. Spencer eyes Sam, half disgusted at the length (or rather lack) of the dress and half shocked at the idea his baby sister actually _owned_ something like that. He follows her around repeatedly asking where she got it, if she has worn it and if he can burn it in the name of art. Carly has evidently mastered the ability of feigning ignorance and Spencer is left pouting like a five year old in the corner while his baby sister retouches Sam's lipstick.

"I am capable of doing this alone," she manages through pursed glittery pink lips.

"Sorry, am I fussing? I'm fussing aren't I?" Carly sighs, resisting the urge to push back the blonde's fringe.

"Just a little," Sam confirms, casting her eyes to the door, "You can tell the nerd he can knock now."

"Oh right, ok," Carly nods and continues to scream out; "Freddie! Sam is re-ady!"

In the silence that follows, she can hear the nervous shuffle of feet and repeated coughing and she wonders if she has made him wait _too_ long. She worries she has given him time to realize what an awful person she really is and imagines him drawing up early escape plans for the date she already deems a disaster. Sam realizes she is not usually like this; nervous isn't really in her repertoire. Boys know she is pretty, _she_ knows she is pretty. Boys know she is fun, she knows she is fun. But she also knows that Freddie is not the type of boy to date a girl for just being _pretty_ and _fun._ They are often something more - something entirely special and unequivocally brilliant. She has this complex around Freddie Benson; a little niggle of inadequacy. She can reason that he is a complete nub and he is lucky she is even casting a glance his way but deep down she _knows _that he is special. This thing they're doing now – it's special.

She can hear herself gulp and the noise does not go unnoticed by Spencer who loudly reminds Freddie to knock. The boy on the other side of the door (finally) complies and her heart flutters in her chest. She wants to laugh at the feeling and the urge to mock herself, but maintains composure as Spencer guides her to the front door and, on confirming her readiness, opens to her date.

* * *

><p>Freddie wasn't entirely sure what to expect when the door swung open in his face. He couldn't help but replay every other first date he had ever been on, each individual girl flashing in front of his eyes in mirage of color. Looking at her now, he struggles to remember what <em>any <em>of them looked like. It's not that he hadn't realized Sam was pretty - indeed he was intensely aware of her growing appeal - he just did not expect the image in front of him. Wrapped in short, black layers of chiffon with cascading blonde waves (which must have taken _forever_, what with the smell of hairspray wafting from the apartment) and soft dark eye make up, Sam Puckett looked entirely like a vision gracing the doorway. Their eyes meet and he smiles at her, because that is all he is capable of. His head just won't catch up with his heart. To his surprise (and inner amusement) she returns it with a shy smile of her own. _Shy_. Freddie never dreamed he would use that adjective to describe the girl in front of him. Especially dressed like _that._

It dawns on him then; while she is dressed up to the nines with perfect hair and make up, he looks like he has just thrown on any old thing from the bottom of his closet and hasn't even bothered to bring her flowers (_was he meant to? Would she like them?). _He glances down at his world worn jeans and layers of polo shirts and suddenly wishes the ground would swallow him whole. Sam too notes his attire and her smile falters. He worries she thinks that he doesn't care, fears that she thinks he is a complete jerk and ultimately concludes that all this worrying is holding him back from actually saying anything. Silence, he decides, does not serve to encourage your already uneasy date and he catches her hesitant back step.

"Are you ready?" he manages and he realizes with Carly's hard stare and Spencer's palm-on-the-forehead routine he has royally messed up.

_Was he meant to tell her she looked nice? Wouldn't that be too weird for them?_

His inner monologue was raging and Carly rolling her eyes did not help ease his nerves. Sam gives a weak smile, a _disappointed_ smile before joining him the hallway, walking on ahead towards the elevators while he hangs back trying to decipher the instructions mouthed by the siblings hanging out the doorway of their apartment. Eventually he gives up with an apologetic shrug deciding it best if he catches up with her at the elevator. When he rounds the corner he sees her jabbing the buttons furiously, adjusting and fidgeting with her dress (and _Lord_ is it a short dress). He knows she is uncomfortable and it occurs to him then that all the elaborate make up, hair and clothes were for _his _benefit and although she looks (is) stunning, it's a foreign concept to him. He would expect it from any other girl on any other date, after all, it is not an outrageous prospect for a girl to wear revealing clothes or paint their face in extravagant make up in order to impress the opposite sex. But this is _Sam_. Sam never feels the need to impress anyone, let alone him. She is unapologetic and comfortable in she is and this is something he has grown both accustomed to and fond of. Without that brash confidence he is anxious and dare he admit, a little bit lost.

"You ready to do this?" he asks finally, hands in pockets and glancing sideways. She pushes the button, more violently this time.

"As I'll ever be Benson," she sighs and he notes the tinge of irritability in tone. He can't blame her. The rest of the trip is equally as awkward and she grows increasingly more frustrated as they ride on the back of the city bus. He already feels like he couldn't have done more _wrong_, sitting beside a well-groomed Sam Puckett on gum stained seats, wearing an outfit that is entirely unremarkable. It doesn't help that for the journey she sits, staring contemplatively out the side window without uttering one word. They finally reach their stop and his anxiety grows as they walk in silence the rest of the 700 meters to a large arena type building off Tukwila Parkway and he thinks he'll just about explode if neither says something soon.

"Here we are!" he announces, gesturing to grey walls. She arches an eyebrow, drawing her arms around her middle.

"Outside a random building on the other side of town?" she clarifies, almost mocking, "So glad I got dressed up for this."

"It's not just _any _building," he corrects, trying to garner excitement with an overly wide grin.

"It's a large building?"

She can't help but tease and it's cold and listless, something unrelenting with the intention to hurt. Even though he knows it's because she is simply exasperated and that he is _partly _to blame, he wonders if this is too difficult. If trying to impress her is worth it. He didn't even _want_ this. After all, it wasn't him making grand gestures in school courtyards, suggesting that their first kiss be with each other or dressing up for dates. Indeed, he hasn't put anything on the line at all. It hits him then that to her, he would be the one appearing cold and indifferent. He has treated her differently to every other date because that is what he _expects_ she wants, and a part of him, no matter how small, holds a grudge. He decides to try again because _really_ who is he to assume he knows what anyone wants or question anyone's worth? It is not the standard he holds himself to and certainly not what he holds her to. He is _better_ than that and she deserves more.

"Just c'mon," he says quietly, ushering across the sprawling car park with his hand on the small of her back. He's gentler now handling her with an unassuming grace his mother would be proud of. Sam seems a little taken back, her spine stiffening beneath his palm and he muses if she is this tense on all first dates. Certainly, he thinks, it must be particularly difficult to date someone you have already claimed your love for and he wonders if this makes her more vulnerable.

He doesn't get much time to mull over complex thoughts when he finally realizes they've reached the doors. She sees the sign above the entrance and while her face contorts bemused, her mouth smiles in that shy way he's getting ever so used to.

"Dude…." She breathes, turning to him.

"I thought you might like to do something different, dinner and a movie just didn't seem like your thing," he says, rubbing the back of his head nervously. He wishes she wouldn't stare at him like that. He feels the blush rising in his cheeks and now, he tells himself, is not the time to be a _girl_ about those types of things.

"Dude," she repeats with emphasis, still smiling.

"That's why I was worried about your clothes," he explains rushing through the sentence like if he doesn't get it out, the words will escape him, "Indoor skydiving and really tight dresses do not mix, or so I hear. Not that your dress isn't nice, it's _really_ nice…"

If she hears the gulp and notices his eyes trail the length of her body, she pretends not to. He knows any other time he would get a smack in the mouth for even looking her way let alone checking her out but in this instance, he thinks it safe to count his chickens.

"Come on," she encourages, suddenly excited, "Let's do this chiz!"

* * *

><p>Sam doesn't like the way the woman at the counter looks at her. Yes, she's dressed completely inappropriately, yes she knows this, and yes, it isn't going to change anytime soon.<p>

"We have suits, but most people prefer to wear clothes underneath," the receptionist says, eyeing her with disdain through brightly rimmed glasses, "You'll not be able to wear _that_ underneath _anything_."

Sam's fists coil unconsciously by her sides and she's more than a little taken back when she feels Freddie's hand curl around hers. She knows he's just stopping her from committing felony assault, and she knows he's only doing this because the idea of having to sit in a cop shop downtown while she's being processed is not one that appeals, but _crap_ – she doesn't want him to ever let go.

"We'll figure something out," he nods politely, his grip tight. She doesn't tell him that the urge to punch the stupid old lady behind the counter faded when his fingers began lacing with hers, instead relishing in the new and not at all unwelcome feeling of his skin.

"The changing area is communal," the woman sighs, "It's just around the corner to your left. Here are the keys to you lockers the suits are already inside. You can change there and your instructor will meet you through the glass doors on the other end of shower area. Your start time is four thirty. Anything else I can help you with?"

"No thank you," Freddie declines, accepting the keys with his free hand. Sam's head is a blur of the same words (_he's not letting go/he's not letting go/he's not letting go_) and he must notice that she has fallen eerily quiet, because when they turn to move, he glances down at their joined hands and pulls away like a man burnt. It doesn't hurt too much, she supposes, only like a million tiny pinpricks. She fails to notice his own hand by his side, clenching and unclenching in an attempt to rid himself of the electricity shooting up and down the now heavy feeling limb.

"Sorry," he mumbles, "I didn't want us thrown out before you even got a chance on the machine."

"S'cool," she dismisses, "You're quick thinkin' Benson. I was about this close in taking her down, MMA style."

"Me too," he agrees with a hearty chuckle, thrusting open the garish green changing room door, "I mean seriously, how rude can some people be?"

Sam narrows her eyes and with a smirk gestures to herself. "Preaching to the choir here Nub."

"I d-didn't mean you were rude," he stammers, "That's not…that isn't…aw _cheese and crackers_."

There's the dork she knows and lo-…there's the dork she knows.

"At ease Benson," she grins, the awkwardness from earlier falling away, "I'm just rippin' on ya."

He breathes a heavy sigh of relief before asking, "But seriously. What are you going to wear? You can't go naked underneath…you aren't thinking of going naked underneath are you?"

His voice is a strangled noise, like something caught in his throat scratching its way out. She finds it kind of amusing. Sam purses her lips and screws them into a devious smirk he knows means trouble.

"Your mom still make you wear two sets of boxers, just in case something happens to the first set?" she asks coolly. He looks entirely affronted by the question, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

"How did you…when did you…how?" he stutters, incredulous. If he weren't so damn cute she would probably punch him for being a complete nub.

"You really want to get into semantics?" she asks, with the arch of an eyebrow, "Just give me your spare set. And one of your t-shirts too."

His hands drop to the button of his jeans and he looks at her, waiting expectantly.

"What?" she growls, impatient.

"I'm not changing with you looking at me!"

"Ok, ok," she heaves a breath, turning her back to him, "Jeez, who knew you were such a shrinking violet?"

Both fall quiet, Sam suddenly awkward when she realizes that she has just asked to wear her crush's boxers, even though that crush is _Fredward Benson. _Four weeks ago she would have probably just ripped them off his body herself with very little shame and/or embarrassment. Four weeks ago, she'd have probably left behind a black eye for good measure. But things were different now; _they _were different.

"Ok, I'm ready," he tells her and indeed, when she turns there he is, back to being fully clothed, sans one t-shirt. He hands her the perfectly folded garments and she wants to roll her eyes (_why did he bother?_), but instead, because they are on a date and all, she accepts them with a polite smile swallowing several insults down and away.

"Good," she breathes, turning her back to him, "Unzip."

"What?" he blurts, and again, she reminds herself not to beat the crap out of him for making this more difficult than it needs to be.

"Do you think I'm a Swedish gymnast or something? I said, unzip me," she repeats the order, firmer this time.

"This is the weirdest date ever," he grumbles.

"Yeah well, get used to it."

The suggestion that there may actually be another date to follow hangs heavy between them, and she wonders if Freddie feels the same weight of expectation. Being friends sure adds many impediments to an already complex situation. The next thing she knows he's directly behind her, breath hot against her neck and she wonders if the boy needs to stand that close to unzip or if he just likes to take his life in his hands. Such a foolish bravery is something she would, in any other boy, find infuriating on the first date but for Freddie, her stomach twirls and a heat pools there. It's different, new and exciting and it scares the _crap_ out of her.

The zipper comes free with an echoed tearing sound and he jumps back, letting her know (loudly) that he has turned around and cannot see anything. Apparently bravery recedes quickly when skin makes an appearance. She changes hastily, peeling off skintight black fabric to replace it with (still warm) Nug Nug boxers and a faded navy Ralph Lauren polo shirt. The smell of Diesel cologne and Dove soap overwhelms her and she can imagine his scent clinging to her skin and hair so much so she'll need to scrub for _days _to rid herself of it. That's if she wants to get rid of it. The dork smells kind of nice. She taps his shoulder and he turns, regarding her with two enthusiastic thumbs up, and _honestly _could he be more of a nerd? Still, she blushes deep crimson when his hand comes up to unfurl the polo collar tucked down her neckand she hopes he doesn't notice, because she's already lost many hard-earned cool points by simply dating him.

After finishing changing into the black, strapped sky diving suit she is hopping up and down in anticipation, wringing her hands and pushing him towards the air tunnel. Freddie, as always, is hesitant (muttering something about the last time he went skydiving how someone pushed him off a plane or some chiz) and for the second time that day, her hand slips into his dragging him behind. She has a feeling it may become something of a regularity and _that_ makes her smile.

* * *

><p>He watches more than he engages and he is neither shocked nor surprised. Ultimately it was her date, all in the name of keeping Samantha Puckett happy. And that she certainly is. After jumping for the sixth or seventh time (he stopped counting a while ago and instead listened to her laughter) she is beyond buoyant, exceeding exuberant. She is full of laughter and breathlessness, screaming and cheering. She is far from a lady, but then, he is far from a gentleman. She runs boisterously to him, jumping on the balls of her feet and yelling something about having so much fun and wanting to never stop. He'll admit when she claims excitedly that it is the "best date ever", he is more than a little proud. He grins along with her rant, and she's all gestures and smiles when suddenly she stops, throws herself into his arms and kisses him.<p>

It is not the perfect kiss; it's sloppy, wild and completely exhilarating and he feels like he might never breathe again.

Much like before he's dumbstruck, unresponsive as she pushes harder against him, hanging her entire weight off his neck. Eventually in time and with the insistence of her tongue, he kisses back, an arm tangling around her waist. She pulls back still smiling and cooing gleefully, her hands cupping his face and bringing it back in another relentless kiss before she runs away. It's crazy, it's fast and it makes very little sense. Any other time, in any other place, he would have convinced himself it had never happened and reasoned it to a bang on the head, or something else amnesia inducing. But his lips are bruised and swollen, his body trembling and he _knows_ then.

He knows he could fall for her.

* * *

><p>The rest of the date passes much more quickly and is entirely different how it started. For one thing, they're back to being <em>Sam<em> and _Freddie_. They banter, she teases, he berates and she insults. It's comfortable, dysfunctional, but it's _them_. He takes her to KFC because anywhere else just wouldn't fit. She wears the dress again except she keeps his t-shirt on over, tying it into a loose knot at the base of her back. She claims he is never getting it back because it looks far better on her and he should be more concerned with how he will explain _that _to his mother but with the way it hugs her hips, he can't bring himself to care.

It's easier than the beginning and it's not how he expected. Like this, now, she makes him laugh. It's the same but it's different. For one thing, she actually _talks_ to him. Hair tousled and wind worn, make up a little smeared she walks beside him chewing on a chicken wing, telling him things about her childhood. He listens and laughs at her wild tales, wondering why he wasn't a part of her life sooner. She unabashedly shows him scars (some places that make him blush) and tells him the story behind each. Her elbow is shoved in his face and she's telling him how she jumped from the porch roof because she "felt like it" and he concludes that Samantha Puckett is _batshit _crazy.

Another thing - she lets him hold her hand. The whole way back to the apartment building their fingers are intertwined and it feels entirely natural and normal and he never wants it to stop. He never wants to let go. He listens to her intently and she rambles and laughs out loud, occasionally animating with her free hand. Her craziness is completely innocuous and wholly charming and he considers why he ever thought of it any other way.

When they reach Carly's front door she kisses him again, long and hard. He laughs when she mumbles against his mouth that he had better initiate a kiss soon or he'll give her a complex. He says he will and as she fumbles for her spare key he catches her off guard and shoves her against the doorway, kissing her. It barely counts he knows, but he just wanted to kiss her again. He worries that it's a little bit addictive.

"So will there be a second date?" he asks, when she rests her forehead to his. He grabs her hands, playing with them and she chuckles.

"Text me and I'll get back to you," she teases and thrusts him away, escaping inside. It's so quick he wonders if imagined it but again, he is left with bruised lips and trembling hands.

One night changes everything - he thought that about the night she kissed him in the courtyard but he will admit, he was wrong. Things weren't different then, he didn't _feel_ any differently. He feels differently now. Something has changed and it's something he cannot reverse or alter, even if he would like to. He's not saying he doesn't anticipate challenges and that it won't be difficult (this is Sam Puckett, he expects it to be _very_ difficult) but now, it might just be worth it.

* * *

><p><strong>Well? Should I have left it alone? I'm so inspired by this, I swear. I think I might continue, but it'll be like a time leap fic rather than a continuous strand of high school debauchery. Maybe milestones? I don't know all I know is I want to write some more! lol I gotta say thanks to you guys. Some people know how self critical I am but the sweet things you guys say just make me want to work harder at it. Even this, I don't <strong>_**love **_**it but it's ok. It could be worse. Reviews make me smile. So does winning the lotto, so if any of you could get on that I'd much appreciate it. **


	3. Securities

_/hey boy I really wanna see if you can go long time with a girl like me/_

It's easy.

She didn't expect it to be this easy. They even have a routine now. He meets her and Carly outside the building in the morning so they can walk to school. If he comes bearing food, she promises to be nice and sweet (well, as nice and sweet as she can manage). What they don't say is that even if she's in a crappy mood and takes it out on him he'll still bring her bacon and a doughnut. She likes that it's a little bit unconditional. She makes him promise to not be a "clingy dork" (he knows its mostly a front for Carly) but he still holds her hand for the majority of the trip. She sighs, and voices audibly that he is quite useless but Carly just smiles and he just walks closer. Neither tells her she's still only trying to convince herself. In school, he respects distance and she appreciates it. In school, they're Sam and Freddie "friend_s_', because Sam isn't sure she's quite ready for anything else. She likes that he _gets_ that. Stolen kisses under the bleachers are his reward and _he _seems to like _that_. It really is a symbiotic relationship.

It's normal too. That in itself is quite peculiar and not something she is used to. Normality is odd. When she tells him this she loves how bemused he looks, like he's trying to figure out a puzzle. She tells him it repeatedly just so she can watch him all over again. That's odd too.

Whenever they aren't spending time doing separate Sam and Freddie things, or hanging out with Carly they're together. They do their homework on his bed (he _makes_ her do it now, guilt trips her with puppy dog looks and voicing his worries about college), they watch movies on his laptop (he downloads illegally and she likes that he's a little bit naughty), they eat dinner from his kitchen. She gets used to the bizarre food his mother buys and he sneaks in bacon and fried goods from the local grocery store. She likes that they're a little bit in sync. There's a tangent rhythm, a pattern in how they operate. She realizes it's like dating your best friend and although the stakes are higher the reward is much bigger.

It's also totally fun. _He_ is fun (he's still a complete nerd though). He takes her kayaking, rollerblading, dancing and everything else that gets her pulse racing. He's a constant surprise and she didn't expect that (a surprise in itself). He tries things, risks things and she loves that he isn't afraid to laugh out loud in public. She loves that when she does it he can't help but kiss her. She loves that he will kiss her anywhere, anytime (despite her repeated physical threats of violence).

They have stuff in common too. He likes the same films as her (the Godfather, the Matrix) and she educates him in musical taste. He never complains when she deletes his playlist and replaces it with her own. She takes him to dingy rock bars and laid back gigs and he seems to enjoy it - genuinely enjoy it. He doesn't just _pretend _to be interested like the others did he_ is_ interested. He learns and so does she.

She likes how comfortable it is; they can sit in silence and it doesn't get awkward. Again, they just sync up. They don't have to talk endlessly and she needs that because sometimes her head gets too busy. He knows she thinks about him and Carly, he knows she thinks about her dad, about her mom, about the future (or her lack of it) and he understands they don't need to talk about it because she'll figure it out on her own eventually. He understands she needs to sort through her own demons. She doesn't want him to fix her, and he wouldn't try. He'll sit with her anyway.

So evidently he_ gets_ her. He can anticipate her moods, knows how and when to react. He tells her she can take it out on him but she rarely does anymore. Not physically anyway. She stills teases and harangues him and sometimes she worries if it's too much. But he keeps coming back and she needs that. He's not her punching bag anymore but he's not afraid to be either. It's a little dysfunctional but it's them and they both have their own understanding of it.

Her favorite thing is that he still hasn't told her he loves her. She knows he won't until he means it and that's important to her. Trust is important. She loves him though and he doesn't mind _her_ telling _him_ that. She does too, occasionally, but it's there and he accepts it graciously. See again, she trusts him with it. Her heart, that is. She trusts he won't hurt her. Trust is very important so she'll believe him when he eventually does say it. She believes him now when he says he's falling.

That's not to say they don't fight (because, boy, can they fight). It's a cycle; they fight, break up and make up at least four times a week. But it's just a part of _them. _It's Sam and Freddie _together_ and she would have been shocked if it had of been any other way. She's not sure she could have survived without their ritualistic bickering.

She knows not to make big things of high school boyfriends, love and relationships but a part of her hard denial betrays her and in her loneliest moments she sees a future. Like she said, it's comfortable, fun, easy and normal. Why can't there be a future from that?

* * *

><p>She catches him watching her from over the long stemmed book in his lap and she glances up from his laptop long enough to throw him a withering glare.<p>

"What you looking at Benson?" she growls, tapping on the keys. He sits on the far end of his single bed, books and school notes strewn around him as if he's in the early stages of fort building.

"Nothin'" he grins and she raises her eyebrows without lifting her gaze from the screen. She enjoys afternoons like this; sitting on his bed with hazy sunlight streaming through his blinds, food provisions around her and Freddie nearby. Even if he is making her write up her Geography assignment. It wasn't her first choice of afternoon activity but she does it because he asks her to (also because he promises that just this once he'll show her how to create her own computer virus and not ask why she wants to learn such a skill). Thinking about it, she would do a lot that he asked now. Only she doesn't tell him that or the nub would think he had some sort of hold on her.

"You're still doing it," she states, searching through dirt bikes on Amazon.

"You're wearing another one of my t-shirts," he says, but he's not mad. In fact he's sitting forward, smiling at her.

"Yeah and you're not getting it back," she mumbles.

"Why do you steal my clothes?"

She shrugs before replying, "I don't know."

He decides to accept it and leans back on the headboard, picking up his notes with renewed interest. She watches him curiously (_is that it? He's not going to push her?) _but he doesn't look back up. Brow furrowing she tries to turn her attention back to the screen but it nags her. Why ask if you're not bothered by not knowing?

"I like the smell," she positions simply and is careful not to look at him. She still _feels_ his grin.

"The smell?"

"Yeah, it like changes every day or something," she explains and he barely catches it because of the drone in her voice.

"Changes?"

"What are you, a parrot? Yes, changes." She rolls her eyes but he is not deterred, still watching her. He's smiling, but he seems….intrigued? Is that the word she's looking for? She intrigues him? She is kind of ok with that.

"Mom changes the powder every week," he confesses after a lengthy silence (which involved him just staring and smiling at her like a _freak_). "Because she's afraid bee's will get used to the scent and like track me down or some chizz. I'm allergic to bee's."

"Your mom is a bigger nub than you are," Sam mutters, but is secretly pleased he tells her. They fall quiet but she can tell there's something else because he's still looking at her with the same goofy grin plastered across his face. "What?"

"I've also been changing my soap every day," he giggles like a school kid, "To see which one is your favorite. I wanted to drive you a little bit mad."

He is full on laughing now, stifling the noise in the palm of his hand and she can't help the smile curling on one side of her face.

"You are such a nerd," she tells him with a chuckle.

"Oh come on! It's funny!"

"It's stupid," she corrects, still typing like she is ignoring him.

"You're stupid," he retorts, almost daring her to engage. She rolls her eyes instead, dismissing him with an over dramatic sigh. He almost looks a little disappointed that it didn't descend into their usual name calling and back and forth teasing so she decides to offer him a little olive branch.

"I like the cinnamon the best," she announces after another short period of quiet, eyes still trained to the typed letters on screen (even though she isn't really paying attention anymore). He's smiling again - she can tell without even looking up now.

"Yeah?" he seeks confirmation in that dorkish way of his and she heaves another sigh as she closes the laptop lid and regards him with a pointed stare.

"Don't push it Benson," she warns, "I like your t-shirts cos they're roomier than my clothes, they're comfortable. That's all."

He's still beaming at her from the other end of the bed and she has the undeniable urge to kiss that grin away, one that she actively chooses _not_ to fight. She crawls up the bed with lithe cat like movements and he suddenly looks terrified, freezing with paper in hand. With a smile entirely different to his, she drapes herself over his body, both legs straddling his waist as she leans down and kisses him soundly on the lips. The soft noise of her playlist from his iPod sounds through the bedroom and she hums along against his mouth. She loves how sweet it is, the tenderness he favors her with and when she pulls away from gentle kisses and looks into his eyes, she has a feeling like she finally _belongs. _Like she belongs to him. She wonders if he knows the effect he has, if he is aware of his power. She sort of hopes he isn't because, God help her, she could not live with the gloating that would arise from it.

"Would it detract from my man points if I told you how badly I am crushing on you right now?" he whispers, playing with her hands in the air.

"What man points?" is her response and he smiles because he _knows_ she likes it when he tells her stuff like that. His smiles are contagious, this she is slowly learning, and she returns it before snuggling into his side, her head slotting very comfortably into the crook of his shoulder. She cuddles in closer, hooking a leg around his thigh and she remembers Carly's claim about ham and snuggles laughing inwardly at the irony. With his free hand he lifts his study notes, reading them mutely.

"What are we studying?" she asks into his chest, her eyes scanning the crisp white sheet.

"English," he replies, "Want me to quiz you?"

"Promise to make me dinner after?"

"Sure."

"You sure know how to treat a girl Benson," she chortles and it's her way of accepting his help. He knows she's struggles with words so it is of no surprise that English is her toughest subject. He's good for then, she supposes. She doesn't think anyone else could convince her to better herself like he does or indeed give her the confidence to try. She likens it to be being five years old and getting a gold star. Except instead of gold stars she gets food and cinema tickets and special snuggles. It's things like this that make her block out the rest of the world. He wants to tell people (his mother, his friends, her mother, her friends) and she is happy in their bubble. She doesn't want anybody interfering_. _More specifically, she doesn't want anyone to try to talk sense into him or tell him things like she isn't good enough or remind him of how horrible she can be. It's not that she doubts him it's more she doubts herself and her own self worth. Of course that is never something she would voice, not to herself or him or anyone else, but it's there. It exists in some dark corner of her mind.

Sam doesn't want to feel any insecurity because it's something she denies to the grave. Freddie makes her feel safe and needed. Really, it's a no brainer. So she can't let anyone taint this. Lying in his bed, doing her homework in the security of his arms, Sam has created her own little haven. This is them when no one else is looking, when no one else is involved. It's honest, it's secure and it's everything she needs.

He is everything she needs.

* * *

><p>Sam always walks away from trouble, she never runs. But Sam always runs into trouble and never walks. She knows it's slightly philosophical but it's also quite literal. Like now, she's walking away very casually from unbolting Miss Briggs tires and hiding them in four corners of the school. She's laughing and she's genuinely impressed by her own mischief and knowing that when she tells Freddie, he'll be aghast at the idea she goes in search of him. Yes, it's slightly cruel but she can't help it. She likes to know how much he cares about her getting in trouble; it reminds her that he does <em>actually <em>care. And Sam's not normal so she can't just ask him if he does, that would be entirely nubish. So she finds him easily (she swears she has radar now or something) when she rounds the corner and sees him talking to Kennedy Boyle. Now Sam is the jealous type - she can't help it, it's embedded in her personality as much as she would like it not to be. Freddie however does not yet know Sam is the jealous type. She knows he is probably aware of few of her insecurities (namely Carly) but that's different. He does not know how possessive she can be over something that belongs to her, that isn't food. She hates that she gets like this – it's not a case of mistrust, but a case of insecurity. Again, this is something she'll only ever admit to herself, and once to Carly.

She also knows the look on Kennedy's face. It's the same look many girls regard Freddie with and it's a look that should be solely reserved for her, his _girlfriend._ She is irrationally angry with the other female's at the school – even though they don't know he's taken it doesn't give them the right to leer at _her_ boyfriend every chance they get. She's not stupid, she knows Freddie's popularity increased with the size of his biceps and while she enjoys the knowledge that some want what she has, she does not appreciate direct challenges. Even if the person does not know whom they are challenging. She's pretty sure if they did, no girl would approach Freddie within ten feet and she would deem said girls smart. When Kennedy reaches out and strokes his arm, Sam has had enough. She bolts forward, shoving the dark haired girl to the side and plants a firm kiss, smack bang in the middle of his lips. He mumbles something against her, something akin to a surprised exclamation, but she stuns him to silence when she fingers come down to hook in the belt hoops of his jeans. She can imagine the girl beside her - the look of distaste and shock molding to one piercing stare. She can also imagine others in the hallway perhaps a little surprised at the turn of events.

She glances sideways and her suspicions are confirmed. Kennedy gives one last wrinkle of the nose before stomping away and Sam can't help but feel a little victorious for the second time that day. She kisses him thoroughly, just to insure that he won't be forgetting about her anytime soon and she wants to laugh at just how _easy_ boys are. Even smart boys like Freddie. She pulls back and is met with a pair of heavy lidded eyes. He takes her whole weight easily and she marks that down to something else she likes about him.

"So, I guess…we're telling people now?" he asks dumbly, his hands resting on her hips.

"No one plays with Momma's toys," is her simple reply and he accepts that. Besides, he kind of likes that he's important enough for her to get jealous. And she kind of likes that he doesn't make a big deal of it.

"Can you two not make out on my locker please?" Carly sighs, narrowing her eyes on the pair.

"Sorry Carls," Sam apologizes jumping back from Freddie. There's a tension there the three still don't acknowledge but Sam knows will have to soon. It's not that she doesn't want to sort through it and find a place where all three are comfortable, but she's afraid of what will come from such a discussion. She's afraid all her Carly sized insecurities will be legitimized and she _really_ does not want to be jealous of her best friend.

"So, we aren't hiding it anymore?" Carly asks, looking distractedly inside the steel cubbyhole.

"Apparently not," Freddie says with a half smile, still gazing at Sam.

"Awesome," is the brunettes forced response as she closes her locker with a loud clang. She looks from Freddie to her best friend and her eyes linger there. "Awesome," she repeats, quieter this time and walks away.

"What's her deal?" Sam clears her throat, feigning a nonchalance she doesn't really feel.

"You know what her deal is," he says, "Sam. Just talk to her. I have."

"You…you've spoken to her? About us?" she grits out through clenched teeth.

"Yes," he confirms like it's no big deal. Like talking about her to her _best friend_ is no big deal. "And maybe you should do. She isn't jealous Sam. And she certainly isn't mad at you for dating me. She's just annoyed you haven't talked to her yet. So it might be an idea."

He's upset with her, she can tell. She really doesn't like it when he is genuinely mad at her, especially when it's for something she struggles to comprehend.

"Does this mean we're not getting bacon after school?"

"I think you and Carly need some alone time instead," he suggests, a little exasperated, "I'll catch up with you later Sam."

Well, she thinks, that's the last time she shows him any public displays of affection. She'll stick with public displays of violence from now on.

* * *

><p>"So I hear you're mad at me," Sam declares, tossing her backpack to the corner of her best friends room.<p>

"Oh yeah? Where did you hear such a vicious rumor?" Carly answers, a little disgruntled at Sam's appearance but still refusing to acknowledge it visually. She continues to scribble on a white note pad, eyes focused on the scrawling pen.

"I'll give you three guesses. And just to speed things along, I'm gonna rule out Spencer and Gibby."

"I'm not mad at you Sam," Carly expels a breath, and it's heavy in the quietness of her bedroom.

"Huh, well you could have fooled me. This would explain a lot of cinema brush off's I've been getting lately."

She spins around on the computer chair, fixing the blonde with a stony glare.

"I said I'm not mad," she grouses, "I'm…. disappointed."

"Aw chiz!" Sam cries, throwing her hands into the air, "Why did you have to say that? That's _worse_ than being mad."

Brow furrowing, Carly looks more than puzzled. "How do you figure that?"

"It's the truth universally known. It's the crap parent's reserve for when they want you to feel _really_ bad about something. It's like, the worst thing you could ever say to someone. Ever."

"Well I'm sorry," Carly almost sing songs, "But it's how I feel."

She swivels around again, turning her back on her best friend.

"Carly," Sam tries softly and upon gauging no response tries again. And again and again, until she is nearly pushed up beside her, peering around to catch her gaze. "C'mon Carls. Carly! Carly, give me the pen."

She reaches for the fluffy pink pen in her friend's hand but is surprised when she met with quite a strong resistance. Anyone else, she would just bite the pen free and beat them over the head with it, but this wasn't anyone else. This was Carly and she was pretty sure she was already in deep enough chiz as it was. This would require much groveling right after she got the pen out of her damn steel grip. What happens then is a little bit of a struggle, Sam continually insisting on freeing the pen, Carly pulling away so far she nearly loses her already precarious balance on the end of the chair. After about ten more seconds, Sam has finally had enough.

"Give it!" she orders one last time, snapping it free from the brunette's fingers.

"Ow!" Carly cries daintily, as if she hadn't put up any fight, "Sam!"

"Alright Shay, now the pen is out of the way, it's just you and me."

"Maybe I don't want to talk about this right now!" she pouts, folding her arms across her chest.

"What's the deal dude? I thought we talked about this…in the bedroom before I went out with Freddie…."

"Oh yeah, that whole twenty seconds of conversation? Yeah, sure that was enlightening. I_ totally _understand how you came about to liking Freddie after that. _All_ my questions were answered…."

Sam could have let her caustic rant continue but she knew how far off tangent Carly could flow if given the chance – she had seen enough fights between her and Spencer to know better.

"Ok, I get it. You're mad because I'm dating Freddie."

"Oh my God Sam, you really are retarded," Carly murmurs, open-mouthed.

"I'm sure you're right but-"

"You're meant to be my best friend. You're meant to feel comfortable telling me stuff like that. And I had _no_ idea. And that was ok, I mean, I get that. It was hard for you. But what about now? Usually we talk about boys and dates. And it feels so awkward if I bring anything up. You haven't come to me about anything Freddie-related at all and he's the biggest thing in your life. You're keeping the biggest thing in your life from me. It sucks. I mean, I have to see you kissing in corridors to find out if you're telling people or not."

"I just…he dated you."

"For like, one week," Carly corrects with a pointed glare as if that is not a good enough excuse.

"He_ loved_ you," Sam amends her explanation with sincerity, "Loves….loved. I don't know."

"Are you kidding me right now?" Carly chuckles, but it's an incredulous sound, "He's totally into you kid. When he's not with you, he wants to talk about you. When you're not listening, he calls you his _girlfriend_."

"He'd be right not to say that when I'm listening," Sam mumbles, trying to change the focus of the conversation. Carly's features harden in that 'be serious' way of hers and she knows there's no escape.

"I'm not you Carls," she breathes finally, almost as if a weight is lifting, "I can't measure up to that. I don't want to be compared because I'm scared if he does, he'll see I'm not like you, not even a little."

"And that's good because he doesn't want me Sam."

"Only because you don't want him."

"Not true," Carly dismisses with a shake of her head, "I'm not going to lie. I always thought that one day me and Freddie might…well it doesn't matter now. But the point is Freddie knew that there was a possibility of him and me. But he also knew if he started dating you, well, that possibility couldn't exist anymore. And he still _chose_ to date you. He doesn't want me. You should know that by now."

They fall into silence, both considering the other.

"I knew you still had feelings for him," Sam admits slowly, "I didn't want to hurt you by telling you all about our dates and stuff. Plus, I thought you'd hate me because I stole him or something."

"Whatever I feel or felt doesn't matter anymore. It's irrelevant. I procrastinated and I lost out. You did nothing wrong, do you understand? Freddie and I are over, there's not even a distinct possibility I would ever consider that even if you broke up with him tomorrow. I've seen how you are around him….it's real. I'm not going to mess with that. I love _you. _I would never hurt you."

"And I don't want to hurt you," Sam whispers earnestly, biting down on her lip. Carly offers a sympathetic smile before rolling her eyes and standing up, offering her arms to her friend. Sam accepts and envelops her in a strong bear hug, nearly knocking her off her feet.

"We've been so stupid," Carly laughs into masses of blonde hair.

"I know right?" she agrees, pulling back, allowing Carly to reclaim her pen and seat. "Did you _see_ Kennedy all over Freddie at the lockers?"

Carly gasps, eyes squinting with distain. "I know right? Slut. I heard she slept with Trey Pucker in the pool at Lindsey's party last week."

"Slut," Sam concurs as if validated and drapes herself casually onto her friend's mattress. Carly is another one of those rare people with whom Sam falls completely into sync with. Again, long periods of silence are not something uncomfortable or unwelcome so when they both decide to concentrate on separate activities there is no awkwardness between the pair. A while later, Carly gasps again, totally out of the blue and swirls around to face Sam.

"What?" Sam asks, nonplussed.

"The next person you're going to have to tell," she says, horrified.

Both girls stare at each other before the realization hits Sam like a bucket of freezing water.

"Mrs Benson."

* * *

><p><strong>Oh my God, you guys! The number of reviews and the awesomely kind things you all have said have totally not been earned. I am not worthy. It's so sweet you all encouraging me. Especially because this chapter is a little (a lot) OOC. I must mention though (a conversation I had with the fabulous The Earl of Sandwich) Sam is not going to be the same Sam from the time the show started. She's going to have to grow up a little. The changes will be small but there will be a few changes. Also, I hope SamCarly's reunion rings true. I'm pretty sure Carly would still have feelings for our Freddo but I'm also confident she wouldn't do anything that would hurt Sam, so this is how I would imagine their internal monologues to be if voiced aloud. I know they probably wouldn't have such a long, meaningful talk in the show but I love their friendship so goddammit they deserve it! Lol Again, this isn't the best it could be. It didn't really turn out as I envisioned in my head.**

**I need to thank three people specifically though who are my constant encouragers; Aussiemma (my ultimate multi-chapter fic at the minute, Kiss with a Fist), The Earl of Sandwich (has written my favourite one-shot of all time, Panopticon) and Pigwiz (who's writing is the stuff lol's are made of). They talk me up when I ain't feeling so good. They're also members of this thing called the Cabal, which are a group of fantastically talented and growingly talented writers. Champagnescene and KingsxLeon21 are particularly fantastic. Also guys, a lot of you may not have noticed but this new writer called CrimeLush has a fic out at the minute. It's rated M (hence why it may have escaped you) but so far that rating has been more of precaution. It's fantastic – it's called the Agreement and it is a very worthwhile read. So yeah, I just shamelessly pimped my favorite authors and fics but ya know what, I don't feel bad about it :P I'm off to drool over Kate Middleton's McQueen dress again. Long authors note, away!**


	4. Fights

_/they try to pull me away but they don't know the truth/_

It kind of unnerves him.

His relationship with Sam that it is. If he's honest, he wasn't entirely sure there would even _be_ a relationship. Even when things were good at the very beginning, doubt was overwhelming. He thought they would be like chalk and cheese, black and white and that it simply would not work because, heck, their entirely dysfunctional friendship _barely_ worked. He expected a fight (something stupid would happen that neither could let go) and they would break up and that would be the end of it. He also expected it to happen pretty soon.

He can now admit his surprise five months down the road, in the transition of Spring to Summer that indeed, contrary to his suspicions, they are ok. More than ok really. They are great. _She_ is great. She is still the same Sam - completely irrational and irritatingly mental a lot of the time but as her boyfriend those things are bizarrely _charming_. Also, quite oddly, nothing really has changed apart from the obvious. It is still _them_, they still have that indescribable chemistry that kept them together in the first place. Their friendship is still alive, and fundamental to who they are as couple and that, Freddie thinks, is something he has never quite experienced with anyone else before.

With his very first girlfriend (he begins to wonder about that term in his old age) Valarie, they were immediately something romantic. There was no friendship there, nothing to build from. He thought she was pretty and nice (oh, how wrong one can be in the cold light of reflection) and she seemed attracted to him in similar ways. But there was no foundation, no deeper understanding of the other and so when shook, they broke. He perhaps thinks to deeply about this, given she was his _first_ girlfriend but he can carry similar observations to Carly.

The semantics are different, this he knows. He and Carly built a solid friendship, they were close and he understood her before they came together as a couple. But the essential idea hadn't changed; he was _in love_ with her, before during and after they became friends. Such romantic feelings flawed his perception of her; he could only see the good and never the bad. He can remember it being a little awkward when he found out how whiney she could be, or how petulant and a little spoilt. Such features were amplified in a relationship and it banished the ideal and perfection. It wasn't that those things were deal breakers – he knows he is far from perfect - but rather it made him realize he didn't really _know_ whom he had fallen in love with. Freddie is a man of calculations and rationale: he likes to be aware of the details and make informed decisions. He realized this after Carly. He also knows he falls head over heels and evaluates later but with Sam, the reverse logic is true.

Before Sam kissed him, he _knew_ her. The good, the bad and the ugly. He was under no false impression as to she was or who she is now. She had flaws, he knew about them, but he liked (sometimes/often tolerated) her anyway. They also had developed rapport - an established friendship unique to them. What he means is that there were no false impressions, no high expectations because they both _knew_ what to expect. It also meant dating her raised the stakes beyond logical comprehension but it was a risk that by the end of the first date he was willing to take. Because he knew there was a very real possibility with them.

So it is this possibility that ultimately unnerves him. The idea that this could indeed be his very first tangible relationship and the responsibility that comes along with that notion. Because, he muses, Sam Puckett is one hell of a responsibility. It's a juggling act; trying to keep her happy and safe. He knows he can't just mess up, because just _messing up_ could have very serious repercussions. And not only for them but also for the sturdy, little family unit he has built over the years (Carly, Spencer, his Mom, Gibby). If, like his relationship with Valarie, this shakes, it cannot break. It's a heavy burden sometimes and even he feels his façade crack a little. He thinks that's why he yelled at her.

She stood looking up at him doe-eyed and puzzled as he yelled in her face telling her that calling his mother names would certainly not help speed up the process of actually telling her about their relationship. He will admit it – he broke. Sometimes the pressure is too much. He likes to think patience is one of his few virtues (it would have to be having Sam around). But with the weight of responsibility weighing heavy on his shoulders, he lost his temper. And probably not at the right time. There are many times Sam's behavior warrants a telling off but he thinks this was not one of those times.

"Sometimes I think it would be easier if we just broke up!" he shouts and she is stunned. They've fought before – hell, they have broken up before – but there is a malice in his tone she is not used to and he can see something in her demeanor retreat. Her shoulders sort of slump and her eyes darken, her lips a tight line. She doesn't say a word, but is instead eerily quiet as she gathers her coat and bag from Carly's sofa and leaves without once regarding him or anyone else in the room. He knows immediately he is wrong but his pride stops him from chasing her.

"Dude," Carly frowns at him. He gives her a look, something with the beginnings of sternness but quickly recedes to defeat.

"I know," he says glumly, "I know."

He tries to find her but she is quick to disappear a trick he thinks, she learns from her father. He spies their usual haunts (the park, the Groovy Smoothie, the balcony) but she isn't there. It is his first indication that, this time, something is very wrong. Usually she would "hide" somewhere he would know where to find her, they would fight a little while longer but then kiss and make up. Literally. It was a little routine they had going and it was how he knew she was never very mad. He knows it's also her not so subtle way of letting him find her (in perhaps more ways than the verbatim). Unsettled, he makes his way back to Carly's and they spend the rest of the evening tracking the illusive blonde down to an old-fashioned diner near her home. It is late by the time he gets there (he doesn't look at his phone because he knows if he does he will see the hundreds of missed calls from his mother) and he can tell by the rather unenthusiastic expression on the waitress's face that it is nearing closing time. He eyes her down the back sitting near a window, her hand curling around the seeping tones of beige painted on her oversized coffee mug, her own gaze focused on something outside in the darkness. He slinks down the aisles, past coffee tables and slides into the booth directly opposite his hands unconsciously coming to rest halfway across the tabletop. She looks at them but hers stay safely gripped around the now lukewarm cup.

"Why do I feel like I should have come armed with bacon and sugar?"

She sighs like he is frustrating her and he thinks _that's a turn up for the books. _

"C'mon Sam," he attempts, "We do this all the time. We fight, we break up. Let's just get to the making up part already."

"Yeah but usually I don't _really_ feel the urge the smack you round the head with a dead fish until you're unconscious." It's almost a snarl but she holds back a little controlling herself in a way that he finds surprising, considering circumstances.

"Sam, you can't just call my mother names," he says as if asserting his position but knowing he does not stand much chance.

"Why not? She calls me names!" the blonde mutters, fixing her gaze to the window.

"But not in the way you-"

"Delinquent, demon, good-for-nothing, devil child," she lists off, head still angled sideways.

"Ok, ok," he concedes reluctantly, "I _know_. And I'll talk to her-"

"It's not about her Dishrag," she heaves a breath, her finger now trailing the rim of the mug still nestled in her hands.

"You've lost me."

"Why don't you want to tell her about us?" Sam asks, turning icy blue eyes on him. The question catches him off guard and his mouth open and closes but nothing comes out. She forces a laugh but it's mirthless and bitter and she turns her attention back out into the night.

"Figured as much."

"It's not like that," he says, "You _know_ it's not like that."

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbles, "Whatever."

"It's not! And I didn't pressure you when I wanted to tell our friends and your mom. Remember? You didn't want to?"

"That's completely different," she throws back.

"Why?" he demands.

"Because I was never ashamed of you," she blurts. It escapes before she can stop it and she immediately looks regretful.

"I-I'm not…I mean I would never be…" he stutters, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

"It's fine," she dismisses like it doesn't hurt, "I knew this was coming. I could tell."

"Tell what?"

"Tell you were getting antsy. Nervous. You were just waiting for an excuse to get out and this was perfect."

"Oh it hurts," he strains, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, "Sam, what are you going on about?"

"Listen Freddie, don't worry about. I get it, I do. I mean we had fun - it was fun. But I could tell lately you were realizing how serious it was getting and let's face it, I'm not the type of girl you take home to mom. It was weirding you out, it's cool."

"You're being completely ridiculous," he says refusing to be drawn in.

"Am I?"

"Yes."

There's a silence that threatens to swallow them whole and Freddie feels that responsibility again. He wonders if he should tell her, if he should be honest about _everything._ He also wonders if she would be offended, if she would find being such a big responsibility offending but then, he thinks he does not give her enough credit.

"So, you think I'm embarrassed of you? Even though I didn't think that when you wouldn't tell people about us? Even though I was the first to _want_ to tell people about us?" he clarifies, bemused.

"You knew that wasn't why though," she says quietly, focusing on the swirling brown coffee against light beige, "You knew I just wasn't ready. And telling random people is different to telling people that matter."

"Well I'm not ready to tell my Mom," he retorts, "And not because I'm ashamed of you. Because I'm afraid she'll be mean to you and you'll end up calling her names and there will be a big fight and she will try to force me into not seeing you again."

Sam gazes at him from across the table and it's softer than before, perhaps a little remorseful but her lips tighten again and he quickly realizes he isn't off the hook just yet.

"That doesn't change the fact there's something else going on dude."

"Something else?" he stammers and it doesn't sound convincing even to him.

"Yeah. You're not as dorkishly ridiculous as you usually are of late," she explains quickly, almost a little embarrassed to even admit to noticing, "You seem like you're thinking about deep chiz _a lot_. And you won't tell me what it is. Not that I _care_…"

Again, he debates telling her. He doesn't think they're at that stage (or if they'll ever be at _that_ stage) where they have serious, meaningful conversations about life and love. It's not that he doesn't think Sam is capable, he just doesn't think that's what defines their relationship. It's meant to be fun, and free and carefree. He always thought if or when they introduced such discussion it would be initiated by her. She would tell him something off-hand and quite by accident (he always suspected it would something about her father or mother or sister) and it would open the gate on further kinds of sharing and conversation. He didn't think he would be the first and he certainly didn't anticipate feeling nervous of her reaction. In a split second, he decides it's worth the risk.

"I've just been thinking of late…this is getting pretty serious."

True to form Sam's features harden, her shoulders squaring in that defensive way of hers. He almost feels like she is about to tackle him to the floor over the coffee table and he wishes he could catch the words and swallow them back down.

"And you don't want it to get serious? Do you want to see other people?" she asks earnestly.

"_What?_ No. No, that's not it," he stutters, the core issue eluding them, "It's just…don't you feel it?"

"Feel what?" She looks genuinely confused and a little like she wants to strangle him. It is one of those oddly charming, crazy behavior traits he likes so much.

"If something happens and we break up. It's going to mean something. We won't be able to brush over it. _Everything_ will change. We will change."

She laughs again and it's perhaps more than a tad condescending. "Benson, we've already changed."

"Doesn't that scare you?"

Her bottom lip curls over her top and she gives a shake of the head, a half smile playing on her lips.

"I guess I got over that part when I put it all on the line to kiss your nubish face the first time," she teases.

"But what if we seriously break up tomorrow?" he quizzes, leaning forward on his elbows. For the first time she pushes the mug aside, regarding him with renewed interest.

"What if the world ends tomorrow?" she counters and he's stunned at _sense_ she makes. Sam Puckett makes _sense. _"Besides…you don't mean enough for me to care."

She's grinning now, teeth trapping her bottom lip to try to stop it. It hits him then that he is his own worst enemy. He thinks too deeply, worries too much and she might just be the person to drag him back to reality. He thinks the same of her – that untrusting, forever skeptical, daddy issues little girl buried deep inside full of niggling self doubt masked with a brash in your face confidence. He worries about letting her down, she worries she isn't good enough (although this she would never admit). He may just be the person to save her.

If she would ever let him, that is.

"You think way too much nerd," she frowns, "Geez we have only been going out five months. I have a cartoon of milk in the fridge older than that."

He chuckles with her, relaxing back into the gaudy blue of the diner seat listening to soft guitar strings strumming over the speakers.

"We just had our first proper fight," he tells her after the quiet.

She raises an eyebrow, replying with, "You have no bruises. That was not a proper fight."

He knows she is covering, masking the idea that it was entirely different _sort_ of fight, one that had a real possibility of breaking them but he plays along, kicking her under the table. He shouldn't be shocked when she kicks back with the force of an MMA fighter but he never expects the strength behind it.

"C'mon wuss," she orders, jumping up from the booth, "that lady has been throwing us daggers for the past fifteen minutes and not that I'd usually care, but I really want to find some food."

He shimmies out and it still surprises him when she takes his hand voluntarily (he kind of hopes she never stops surprising him). It astonishes him even more when she leans up on tippy toes and kisses his cheek following it with a swift punch to the shoulder.

"What was that for?" he rasps, fighting the urge to rub both spots.

"The punch was for thinking I couldn't deal with your mother and for being a complete nub," she tells him, guiding him out of the diner hand-in-hand.

"And the kiss?"

"Was for coming to find me."

_And for understanding_.

But she doesn't say this out loud and he doesn't push her. Maybe for now they won't be one of those couples that can openly express their every feeling and fear - but he's kind of ok with that. Because he knows if he ever chose to she would understand. Many couples, he ponders, have their fears, worries and insecurities. Many can even talk about them amenably and honestly but not many can _truly_ understand where the other is coming from. He thinks they're a part of the lucky few that do.

He thanks God for friendship. He thanks God they didn't break.

* * *

><p>When they tell his mother, Sam is dressed in white (a picture of virtue and a mask his mother knows well). She is amiable and polite and even bites back on several insults his mum blatantly paves the way for (although he does hear her murmur more than a few questionable names for Marissa under her breath a number of times).<p>

He says it aloud during desert, his arm resting around Sam's shoulders. She shrugs him off, looking disgusted that he would even think to touch her when she has food in her hands. He would be more annoyed with her lack of support if his mother didn't hit the ground with a hard thud. He rushes dutifully to her side while Sam eats on, mumbling something about how a knock to the head might do her some good. He admonishes her for her not caring and for being everything his mother expects her to be (and moan, moan, _moan_) so she gets up, knocks him out of the way and drags the woman to the sofa, dumping her there unceremoniously.

"There. Happy?"

The boy is barely functioning, rushing around looking for ice packs and realizing they have no painkillers to which he insists on popping to the shop to retrieve. She calls him a momma's boy as he leaves but he barely flinches and she makes a note to think up more innovative insults later. When he leaves she checks periodically to make sure Marissa is breathing (well, she doesn't want her to _die _or anything) and when the brown haired woman comes around she immediately fixes Sam with a stare that alarms her. And Sam is not easily alarmed.

"You're dating my boy," his mother states like it's a matter of national security.

"Dating is a loose term. More making out and letting him feed me," she corrects but struggles with the dry humor behind it.

"We both know Samantha, Freddie is not meant to be with _you_."

"Well we both know you're all kinds of crazy," Sam holds her ground, which she thinks would be a lot easier if she wasn't in a dress typical of the Taylor Swifts of the world. Her own clothes prove much more conducive to kicking butt. She really wishes Carly would stop dressing her for things like this.

"Freddie is going to MIT next Fall. Freddie is going to be something special. And I will not let some harlot usurp my plans. We both know he is meant to be with the Carly's of the world, not some girl who can barely manage a C on a pop quiz."

"I got a B in my last quiz _actually_," she refuses to waver, holding her ground, "And this is something you cannot control Marissa. I am, and will continue, to date your son for as long as I want to."

She can hear herself; tone firm but staying surprisingly controlled, words plotted thoughtfully. She doesn't explode, or yell, or storm out. She's fighting a whole different type of game she really isn't used to fighting but with the look in the other woman's eyes she has the sneaking suspicious she may actually _win. _

"Freddie is a smart boy. He won't stay behind for the likes of you. The wrong sort of girl."

Sam inches closer, perching herself on the end of the coffee table glaring at Mrs. Benson.

"I made out with him in his room last night while you were tucked up asleep. And of late I've been beginning to get the feeling he wants to do more than _make out_," she smirks adding a suggestive eyewink for emphasis. Now, Sam's claims may not have necessarily been _true_ (indeed, she thinks Freddie may actually die if she were to even suggest taking things to that level so soon) but they have the desired effect. The woman passes out with a dainty sigh on black leather and Sam smiles, victorious. Just then Freddie comes rushing back in the front door laden down with shopping bags and medical kits. A part of her worries about how much of this woman is in the boy she's dating and she watches frustrated as he fusses over his insentient mother.

"Has she been out all this time?" he queries worriedly.

"Uh huh," Sam confirms breezily, reacquainting herself with the bowl of ice cream. Marissa stirs again, groaning dramatically at the sight of her son.

"Oh Freddie," she moans, "I had this horrible dream you were dating Samantha Puckett. What happened? Did I pass out making dinner?"

Freddie looks to Sam perplexed by the questions asked and she merely shrugs, sucking on the steel spoon perched from her mouth.

"Uh…no. No Mom it wasn't a-"

"It was a dream Mrs. B," Sam interjects with an exasperated eye roll. Both Freddie and Mrs. Crazyflakes look to her with varying degrees of wonder and abhorrence and she can only manage another shrug.

"Sa…Samantha?" Marissa falters, glancing to her son.

"Yeah Mrs. B, you invited me over for dinner remember? Because my mom's gone to Canada for the weekend?"

"Did I? I don't really remember…did I Freddie?"

Still looking at Sam intrigued, she urges him on with a little nod and a look that tells him if he makes her out to be a liar she'll beat him over the head with a stick. A very large one.

"Yeah Mom," he corroborates, baffled, "Yeah you did."

"Oh. I really don't remember."

"Yeah and you said it was ok if I stayed too. Hung out with Freddie and junk. Not that he's my _first choice_ or anything…but where there's food, Sam Puckett follows."

"Oh my. I said you could stay? Freddie?" she seeks confirmation again and Sam wants to laugh at how distressed she looks at the suggestion of spending a weekend with the delinquent child.

"Yeah Mom…you did," he confirms again, mouthing 'what the hell' when his mother buries her face in her hands. Again, she only shrugs but she's smiling and Freddie is worried he is becoming immune to her own brand of crazy because he is smiling too (because this idea is batshit crazy).

"Well if I said you could…"

"You did," both finish for her in unison and Sam has to physically bite down on her lip to stop from laughing.

"Well, I'll make up Freddie's bed for you. Freddie you'll stay in my bed?" Marissa orders but the boy rebuffs her and Sam thinks he might _actually_ be growing a pair.

"No, I'll stay in the lounge," he cries shrilly.

"Ok…ok," Mrs. Benson barely manages a confused whisper as she goes in search of bedding from the hot press.

"What the…Sam?" Freddie asks, shifting over to the coffee table.

"You're right she isn't ready," is her quick explanation followed by another spoonful of seriously melted ice cream.

"But you wanted me to tell her," he says, still perplexed, "Stick it to her were the words you used as I recall."

"Yeah well…." she drags off watching the path his mother took to the bedrooms, "Maybe we can do that after we graduate. After we get our offers for college."

"We?" he asks, looking amused.

"Yeah we," she glowers, "You think I can't get into college?"

"No, in fact I keep telling you if you worked harde-"

"I _can_ get into college," she insists, "Momma is smart."

"I know you are Sam."

"Well then. We tell her after graduation?"

"A year away?"

"Yeah. You got a problem with that nub?"

He looks like he wants to argue with her, to find out the cause in the sudden change of attitude towards his mom, specifically telling her about them. But Sam has that determined look on her face the one that surfaces when there is usually a plot or a scheme brewing and he's not sure he _wants _to know.

"So…you're saying we will tell her after graduation, in a years time, when we're still together?"

"Are you retarded?" she sighs, exasperated.

"No, just clarifying that we will tell her in a _years_ time, when we're _still_ together after graduation."

Sam narrows her eyes, the spoon still hanging loosely from her lips. "_Don't_ make a big deal of it nub. _If_ we're still together after graduation, we'll tell your soon-to-be-certified mother that we've been dating. If."

"Freddie! Do you want your Nug Nug bed sheets or your Power Rangers ones?" his mom calls from beyond the hall. Freddie winces, squirming in place on the coffee table.

"Either is fine Mom!" he groans, hazarding a glance in Sam's direction. She's grinning and mentally putting that on the list of things she'll post on Splashface later. "So," he expertly changes the subject, scooting a little closer to her, "What was with the spending the weekend here thing?"

"Well you'll feed, water and entertain me so it seemed like a better option than taking care of myself. Besides Carly's away in Yakima so I can't really mooch off of her."

"And?" he waggles an eyebrow playfully, his arm brushing against hers.

"And," she lowers her tone, peeking behind him to make sure his mom isn't in earshot, "I figured we could make out in your bedroom. Like _a lot._"

With that she jumps up in search of more ice-cream from the Benson kitchen (even if it is yucky and soya free) and when she hears him exclaim "awesome" under his breath she smiles to herself, triumphant for a second time that evening.

_Crazy Marissa Benson: 0, Sam Puckett: 1._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Eugh, I'm losing it again. This is shit (excuse my French) but I couldn't stare at it for any longer. It was either put it up or let it die on my hard drive. Depending on reaction I should have maybe let it die. I'm self-loathing, deal with it :P **


	5. Love You's

_You know what you do/you set my heart on fire_

She wonders if he would die for her like he was willing to Carly.

It's an odd contemplation, one she should think ridiculous but instead consumes her every thought for the rest of the day. She rationalises that he is her boyfriend and that he _chose_ her but it is the ever persistent, nagging self-doubt that seems to win out. She doesn't enjoy obsessing like some over-dramatic teenager and it's not so much the act (she certainly wouldn't _ask_ him to die for her in that Twlight-esque, brutishly cringe worthy type way) but it's more the sentiment. Does he care enough like he did with his big, true, first love and soul mate? She thinks it to probably be the last Carly insecurity left and she'll admit to it being quite a large one.

It's the symbolism she thinks. She remembers a lesson on poetry in English class about symbolism through actions or some chizz, and she figures that's what this is. Being willing to die for someone means you love them unconditionally or so she hears from every teen-angst movie floating around on her Netflix queue.

The Netflix queue that Freddie set up and paid for, for her.

That same Netflix queue he synced with his own so they could watch movies together in bed at night when he's at home and she's in her room.

Things like this should be enough for her and they are to an extent. She doesn't want the nubbish romanticisms that other girls her age seem to crave, she is quite happy with the little things. That's why she supposes she was happy to wait for him to tell her he loved her…seven months ago. Seven months, she muses, is a long time to love someone and not be sure if they feel any inclination towards the same. He hasn't hinted, not even spoken a word that has even rhymed with the forbidden four-letter utterance. Sam doesn't like games and she especially doesn't like them when they involve her feelings. She sort of wonders if his holding back is a way of keeping her on a tight leash. He finally has the upper hand after all, even though she is loathed to admit it. Maybe he's enjoying a little pay back after all those years of torture. Freddie would probably scold her for thinking anything like that, he would insist that he is innocent of all accused crimes and _she_ is the crazy one. And maybe she is. It's like swings and roundabouts in her head, a constant back and forth of insecurity, anger and excitement. And while she's used to it she fears although he knows just how mental she can be, dealing with that on such an intense level _might_ be different to dealing with it on the semi-personable manner he had before.

She glances over to him on the driver's side of his beat up Ford MG. Top down, aviator glasses perched on his nose and hair adorably messy in the wind, he looks suspiciously_ cool _and she wants to sneer at the thought that he could ever be anything more than a dweeb.

Her dweeby boyfriend but a dweeb nonetheless.

Instead she can barely manage a smile when he catches her eye and reaches over to take her hand in the middle. _Things like this_she reminds herself. One hand on the wheel, his other on hers she has the inexplicable urge to just ask him – just to get it over with (like before).

"Where are you taking me Dishrag?" she blurts out, stumbling over the words as if they're not what she wants to say.

"A date - remember Sam? The things couples do together on a semi-structured basis?" he grins, tightening his hold on her fingers.

"Yeah and I thought that meant free meat within a reasonable vicinity, not crossing the border," she counters likes she's mad but he knows she isn't. She kind of likes the adventure. Bored, the picks up his iPear, flicking through the playlist sounding from the car stereo.

"How did you get it wired up to the jank system in his heap of junk?" she queries, half-interested.

"Well I needed to switch the amp system internally, reconfigure some wires to-"

"I don't care!" she interrupts, tiring quickly of the nerdy details he imparts to her.

"You asked," he mumbles, slightly exasperated now.

"Yeah but only because I wanted to know how you managed to figure out a way to get your crappy music to play in your crappy car so I could switch said crappy music for my iPear," she explains and its part tease, part truth.

"Glove box," is his only answer and she wriggles out of his grasp, searching through the cracked compartment in the dashboard to retrieve the music device. Successful, she coos and Freddie has to fight the urge to smile at how damn adorable it is when she does a little victory dance in the passenger seat. "Happy now?"

"Do I have bacon in my hands?"

"No."

"Well there's your answer Genius," she says, pulling a face as she busies herself with changing over media players.

"I don't know why you're complaining," he sighs, "It's not like we go to dinner ever anyway."

"Yeah, 'cause date night should be fun. Eating is a necessity and something that should be a basic requirement in any relationship. I'm not giving you an easy way out….now sssh – I love this song."

She signals to the radio, an exuberant track ringing in his ears when he turns to her and he is taken back to see her lift her hands into the air, giving a charming little wiggle dance in place.

"What's that?" he laughs heartedly when she repeats the ridiculous movement.

"S'called the Sam Snake," she answers playfully, breaking into robot moves.

"Sam…Sam people can see you," he tells her through snorts of laughter, his arm coming over in a perfunctory attempt to still her theatrical dancing. She shrugs him off easily rising in her seat.

"C'mon Benson, shake what your momma gave ya," she encourages with a grin, "which to be fair isn't much."

"Hey! You said you liked my ass."

"Who said I was talking about your ass?"

"Stabs at the manhood," he chuckles, stealing as many safe glances of her as possible, "Classy."

"Always," she confirms and pulls his arm off the steering wheel, "C'mon, dance monkey boy."

After meekly declining to join whatever freak show she was trying perform for passing cars, Freddie realises with the forth tug on his hand that he is not immune to the feminine wiles of his girlfriend and is forced to mimic sliding head turns in back and forth directions. He really wishes people would stop encouraging her with car honks and cheers because _honestly_ this is the kind of behaviour conducive to causing serious traffic accidents. On the other hand he is begrudged to admit it is sort of fun to see her clap encouragement with her hands, clearly glad he is willing to make an absolute fool of himself for her. God knows Freddie's dancing can only ever make him look like a fool. He wonders quietly how they got here, now, completely contented and ridiculously happy. Enviably happy or so Carly tells him. Once upon a time Freddie could have only imagined himself this content with one girl and it wasn't the blonde dancing shamelessly to his right. Indeed at one time Freddie would have honestly believed that she was the last person who could ever make him happy and it wasn't a callous, bitter conviction but rather an honest one. He genuinely assumed he irritated her and while they would be friends,_ good_ friends even, that conflict would always exist in some form or other. It's odd then that that conflict is what makes him feel so alive _now_. Breathlessly she falls back into place beside him, her laughter an uneven sound against the fading musical backdrop of her playlist.

"I'm getting hungry," she announces, a little uncomfortable with how Freddie stares at her from the driver's side, "I want meat."

It takes him an increasingly awkward ten seconds to drag his eyes away, refocusing his gaze on the road ahead. "Nearly there now."

"And there'll be meat?" she asks, attempting to retrain the mood.

"Isn't there always?"

She grins forgetting the uneasy tension from earlier when he takes her hand again tangling his fingers in hers and brings them to his mouth, his lips tracing her knuckles.

"You do know I haven't washed my hands in two days," she confesses but it's not enough for him to detach his lips from her fingers and cease the butterflies in her stomach.

"Your germs are my germs," he smiles and she rolls her eyes at just how dorky he can still be. The rest of the ride is done in companionable silence, Sam rearranging herself on the seat so her feet prop up out the car but still angled in a comfortable enough position so that her hand just rests in his. Honestly, she couldn't let go even if she wanted to. It's like second nature now in a way she never thought it would be. Whenever they're together there's this natural sync where things just fall into place, and it wouldn't make sense if she didn't take his hand or he didn't wrap an arm around her waist just so they were physically touching. And it's not like she's sucking his face in public, or copping a feel whenever she gets a chance – she has some self-control and he's still a dork with the ability to repulse her on occasion.

The thing is – she kind of likes it.

Not the dork thing _obviously_ but the touching thing. It doesn't nauseate her as much as she thought it would and it's sort of a surprise. A nice one but still a surprise. Sam doesn't crave affection. She doesn't go through girly periods of needing cuddled or held, she doesn't need him to touch her or hold her - but she _wants_ him to. And the great thing is (the thing that convinces her that this just might work) is that he understands the limits and boundaries. He _gets_ her and he knows the difference between a quick peck on the lips and a full on make out session. She never feels smothered or like he's marking his territory. She feels like he just might want to too. If he never says the infamous l word, if he doesn't ever feel it the way she does, she decides that this might just be enough. The idea he wants her sits ok and it's enough. A part of her wonders if she's prepared to settle a little, if she's giving up on something she shouldn't really give up on but Sam doesn't believe in fairy tales. Sometimes love just isn't necessary.

He breaks her out of her reverie with a little nudge and her natural response is to punch him back – hard.

"Sam!" he scolds, glaring at her from the driver's side, "I was just letting you know we're here!"

"Oh," she sighs, a little embarrassed, "Sorry. But you know the rules. Don't bite the hand that feeds you."

"Wha-Sam that doesn't even make sense," he argues, frustrated and rubs the spot she just hit.

"Sure it does."

"No because in that case…you know what? Never mind. We're here now," he tells her and she looks at him like he's forgetting something huge. "What?"

"Well?" she shrugs, gesturing towards the door.

"You want me to open your door for you?" he asks, incredulous.

"Why not Benson? You were the one that planned this romantic date. If you're going to do something, do it right. I am a lady after all."

"You're something," she hears him mutter under his breath and watches amused as he makes his way around to the passenger side and flings the door open. She sits still, staring ahead. "What now?"

Clearing her throat she sticks out an expectant hand, dangling it in the air for him to take.

"You've got to be freakin' kidding me," he laughs but takes her hand anyway, guiding her from the car. "Better, my lady?"

"Getting there. You could lose the attitude," she suggests and straightens her t-shirt over the band of her jeans. "Whatever happened to the eager little beaver who planned extravagant dates to parachuting centres and camping trips in the woods?"

"He ran out of money trying to keep you fed," Freddie deadpans but can't fight the involuntary smile tugging on his lips.

"Huh. Maybe it's time for a newer model then," she smirks, nudging close to him as she squeezes past and swaggers across sandy grass until she reaches the end of a dune. She's breathless at what waits for her just over the hump of land obscuring her view, her eyes searching out a long expanse of golden sand meeting what is perhaps the largest pool of seawater she has ever seen. Waves crash in white against the shore and she thinks it akin to some sort of novel or movie trying desperately to achieve atmosphere through imagery. Usually she wouldn't be into that shit, but she's found herself paying a lot more attention in English of late. It's her age she supposes.

"Well?" he asks tentatively behind her and she whirls round, eyeing the quirky purple picnic basket hanging from his hand.

"Manly," she can't help but jest and it's a little if not a lot defensive. It's not often that Sam Puckett is surprised or taken back, especially by Freddie Benson. There's a comfort in predictability, a comfort in their synchronisation and she doesn't expect romantic gestures to factor into the mundane of their awkward teenage trysts. Again, it's the getting older perhaps. He suddenly looks embarrassed, regretful possibly that he has tried something new and she feels a lot like a jackass.

"Too much?" he says dejectedly as if he already knows the answer.

"No," she shakes her head, frowning, "No. Just…not what I was expecting."

"I just thought…well – we don't do stuff like this. _Ever."_

"Yeah," she agrees but it's a self-conscious, breathless sound, her attention dragged back to the beach behind her.

"You hate it."

"I don't!" she defends shrilly, head snapping back round.

"Yeah you do. C'mon. I'll drive us home, we can pick up a McDonald's on the way back."

"Benson," she growls stepping into his personal space, a fist coiled just below his chin, "Stop being such a dork and just help me pick a spot to eat on."

"How come we can never do romance without you threatening me?"

"How come we can never do romance without you acting like a total loser?" she counters without missing a beat and takes his free hand in hers, dragging him down grassy dunes towards the sand. She feels like she's powering through, trying to steer past the utter unease that overwhelms them and regurgitates memories of early relationship dates and encounters, dates she recalls, that that felt quite similar to this. She settles on an area of soft sand and it's not particularly interesting or spectacular but more close to a waiting exit should either of them decide they've drowned in enough awkward for a lifetime of dating. She takes charge, taking the basket and blanket and laying them out on the ground before kneeling down to unpack its contents.

"Well?" she says, pilfering a quick glance at him, "Are you going to make me do all the work?"

He visibly shakes himself, falling down beside her on chequered cotton and dutifully aiding her unpacking efforts. She's sort of pleased he's so easily ordered and, falling back into earlier easiness, ruffles his hair much like she would a dog or family pet. "There's a good boy."

Playful faces are exchanged, the banter re-emerges and it's suddenly like it was before except oddly intimate. A lot less bickering sidekicks and a lot more _real_ relationship. It's a bit new and lot strange but Sam muses she might just get used to it.

* * *

><p>"Was your first crush really Carly?"<p>

It's not an accusatory question or a trap when Sam asks, more a comfortable inquisition into his past. Apparently Freddie feels the same because he hardly flinches in her lap, not even bothering to lower his book.

"Yup," he says, annunciating the word. She has a feeling he's not really paying attention, so she hazards a glance down at him through dark blue rimmed expensive designer glasses she had made him buy her. Her suspicions are confirmed when he turns another page in his book. She had propped herself back on her elbows, basking in the evening sunlight when his head came to rest in her centre of her crossed legs and she hadn't thought it strange or uncomfortable at the time, so she let him stay like that nestled snugly against her thigh. Now she feels sort of like a sappy 90's movie couple and fights the impulse to kick him off her lap.

"Who was yours?" he asks but not like he's interested and more like he's obligated.

"Anyone," she chuckles, "Everyone."

"Yeah I know that feeling," he concurs, turning another page.

"Jeremy Hammond, 4th grade," the name tumbles from her lips without much change of stopping and the boy below her looks suspiciously intrigued behind overly large sunglasses.

"Who is he?"

"My first love," she lies because she can't stand to confess to the tragedy that Freddie Benson has been her first and only love. _That_ really would be pathetic.

"Oh?" he closes his book on his chest regarding her with renewed interest, "And where is Mr Hammond now?"

Sam shrugs pressing her face into the fading sunlight. "No idea."

"What was he like?"

"He was a good dude," she confirms and a little teasingly adds, "a bit of bad boy. You know me."

"So…what happened?"

She hazards a glimpse down at him and is a little amused to find his glasses pushed back up onto his forehead, his face contorted into something that looks oddly like jealousy.

"You feeling threatened Benson?" she grins. He struggles against an involuntary groan that threatens to escape at the sensation of her nails scraping along his scalp.

"No," he replies, "Just curious."

"Huh. Well it ended with him deciding he wanted to hold Delta Jennings hand at recess instead of mine. It was a very trying break up but I got through it by rigging his locker with puke."

Freddie's nose wrinkles and he reminds himself to never ever break up with Sam Puckett. "Nice."

"It actually was…ya know…before all the puke. I would have probably died for him if someone had of asked me to."

"Yeah, it's weird to think of the stuff you're willing to do for something you think you love right?" he chortles swiping his glasses back down.

"Yeah," she forces a laugh and decides in that moment to just take the plunge, to just ask and get it over with like she wanted to before. "It was kinda like how you were with Carly actually. You know….putting yourself in front of that truck. Risking your life."

"It was kind of instinct," he murmurs and she feels her heart sink, "Something I sort of had to do."

"Would you…I mean do you-do you feel the same about me?"

There. She said it. It's out in the universe and there's no chance (even if she wanted to) of taking it back. No matter how much of a loser it made her look.

She feels his weight shift out of her lap and she purposely keeps her head tilted to the sky doing her best to stay nonchalant, like she hasn't just rocked their fragile little universe and broached a subject previously deemed un-broachable.

"Sam," he says her name softly in her ear and it's so close to a command she can't help but turn her head to his. He's smiling when she finally meets his concealed gaze, eyes crinkling in the corners and he seems almost amused that she would even ask. She's unsure why it's all so funny; why her insecurity is so freaking hilarious. "Sam Puckett – I would do _anything_ for you."

She still can't see anything behind those stupid glasses and is uncertain of what the hell she should do next when he kisses her soundly in the centre of her lips, effectively silencing any argument she might have had. Relaxing in to it, her hands come up to his shoulders and she grips like she's holding something soft and breakable beneath steel but in reality is only terrified of holding on just that little bit too tightly. Sam's actions tend to give her away; she is a woman of very few words and many actions so she finds herself mentally reeling herself back when she thinks she goes that little bit too far. She supposes this trait would be a good thing if she employed it during her many fights and spats, but rather she feels she uses it as an emotional safety net, a precipice she constantly balances on.

When he pulls back he's still smiling and she's still processing, a vague look of confusion etched into flushed peach skin. He frowns, bemused.

"Not the right answer?"

"No….no it was perfect Dweeb," she forces a smile all the while thinking to herself that yes, while it may have been a perfectly sound answer it was not the one she wanted. It wasn't the one she had hoped for. A rush of cool evening air tingles the back of her neck and she shivers. "It's getting cold. Maybe we should go."

"We can't!" he says and it's her turn to be confused, stunned by the shrillness with which he objects. "I mean…we can't. Not yet."

"But it's getting dark," she reminds him, rubbing her arms.

"Just a little while longer? I'm kind of enjoying getting away from everyone. We don't get much time alone."

"Ok…sure," she agrees, "So we're just gonna sit?"

"Sit or lie?" he offers, leaning back on the patterned quilt and holding out an arm to her. She can make peace with lying down; food and naps co-exist rather peacefully in Sam Puckett's book. She fixes herself rather comfortably into the open crook of his arm, her own snaking around his middle to hug in a little bit tighter. She feels him jump, startled at the feel of her bright blue converse nudging his legs apart. Her own smooth calve comes to rest just against his and _this_ was what she was taking about. The touching – it's incessant and needy and completely natural but still just teetering on the line of acceptable. The newness of every little move, every brush of the hand is thrilling and sends her hormones into overdrive. She briefly wonders if that's what he's doing now; a romantic night underneath the quickly darkening sky all so he can get laid. Ultimately she decides the Nerd is not that resourceful or enigmatic; there's no way he could plan something like _that_ and for her not to even clue in. She's broken out of her silent musings with a slow rumble from his chest and a sentence that strikes horror into the pit of her stomach.

"I think you're pretty without any make-up on."

"Freddie don't you dare," she warns and there's enough intent there for him to take it seriously if he chose to. Unfortunately he chooses to ignore her.

"I think you're funny when you tell the punch line wrong," he continues and she rolls her eyes into his chest.

"Benson."

"You make me feel like I'm living a teenage dream the way you turn me on," he begins to hum the lyrics on top of her head and she looks around to make sure there's enough space between them and the silent, much cooler couple occupying the strand near them. "I can't sleep-"

"Oh you will. It'll be a deep and everlasting one if you keep singing that song," she mumbles, stealing a glimpse at his face. He's completely relaxed beneath her one hand propping up his head behind, his eyes closed to the ever-approaching night. She wishes she could still strike as much fear into him as she used to, just to save from any embarrassment that might come when he inevitably decides to belt out the rest of the lyrics to a Katy Perry song in public. She realises she might just have to start ritualistic beatings.

"Let's run away and don't ever look back," he smiles that part, his voice a hoarse drone at the back of his throat. Just for smiling she pinches and twists his nipple hard. He flinches and bats her off, his lower lip pouting out. "Ow. What was that for?"

"For singing to me. In public no less."

"I wasn't singing to you, I was singing near you," he corrects, rubbing his chest clearly afflicted,

"Same diff," she scolds.

"Just trying to pass the time," he sighs and she peeks up at him curiously throw long lashes.

"Pass the time before what?"

"Who said before anything? I just said pass the time."

"Huh. You know? I'm getting pretty tired. I think I want to go."

"No!" His eyes snap open. "Not yet."

"Ugh, why not? I'm bored!" she whines, propping herself up on his chest. "Bored."

"Sam."

"So bored."

"Sam!"

"Just give me the keys, you can lie here for as long as you want?"

"No."

"Ugh…why not? It's so cold and we're quickly running out of supplies. What if we get stuck here?"

"Sam. There's over twenty fatcakes left and the car is just over the hill. You are not going to starve to death on a beach," he rationalises with his eyes clamped firmly shut and she can tell he's trying to calm himself, taking long deep breaths.

"Are you trying to get into my pants?" she deadpans but there's a little curiosity to the question and he spots it, peering out through one eye.

"Who says I want to be anywhere _near_ your pants?"

She shrugs. "You think I don't know I'm hot?"

"Oh I know you know it," he chuckles, "Still doesn't mean I'm interested."

That sounds like a challenge to her. She crawls up his front and kisses him thoroughly on the mouth, her hands pushing on his chest for leverage. But with the way his hands grasp at her hips and pull her down she can't seem to keep her balance and ends up draping herself across his body, and they're so close she can hardly breathe. She is pretty sure she made her point about thirty seconds ago but she can't seem to pull back long enough to point and mock. Their lips move together in a languid rhythm, unhurried and familiar and when she moans into his mouth she can feel him smile, his fingers tickling the small expanse of skin just where her hoodie has ridden up.

"Mmm…mmm!" he hums urgently, pushing her back long enough to for words to escape. "You're going to miss it."

"I know you're only 17," she punctuates each word with another kiss, "But give yourself a little credit."

"No, not that," he laughs against her mouth unable to fight reflexive movements of their lips passing over each other, "Seriously Sam."

He shoves her up by the elbows and she rolls over onto the blanket with a soft thud, looking more than a little disgruntled at being pushed off.

"Dude. There better be a good reason you're rejecting me and my hot ass."

"There is just wait," he tells her and he has that excited Nerd face on that she fights so hard not to punch. No good can come of what happens after he makes the nerd face – she has learned this from ample experience. She notices him fish his keys from his jacket pocket and she stands with him, fully prepared to escape to the warmth of his Ford but he stops her with a palm on her stomach. "Stay there."

"If you dump me here, I will find you and I _will_ kill you," she cautions. He doesn't heed her, jogging up the sand and disappearing over the dunes. She does wonder why she takes orders from the Nub and she supposes it's partly because she's tired, partly because she's hungry and partly (just a little) because she sort of likes him. She's debating between searching out another fatcake and chasing after him when he rounds the hill, carrying a large heavy bag over his shoulder. Breathlessly he dumps it on the ground immediately going to work on unpacking whatever's inside. She sees it then and groans, perhaps excessively loud.

"Not the Nerd lens," she whinges pointing at his long white telescope, "Anything but the nerd lens."

"This is a Celestron Advanced Series, it's got a 6 by 30 finderscope so I can-"

"I don't care!"

"Sam, can't you just pretend to be interested? It won't kill you."

"It might and I'm too young to die," she dismisses uninterestedly, falling back into the sand. She chooses to ignore him as he sets up the contraption instead deciding on catching some sleep while he works. With any luck whatever he's going to try to explain to her about the planets and moving 30 degrees north and whatever the heck that means for _them, _will be over by the time she wakes up. Unfortunately for Sam she underestimates Freddie's determination tonight and is woken by a relentless poking to her tummy, followed by an unmistakable Benson whine.

"Poke me one more time and you'll lose it," she yawns, stretching out, "How long was I out? Are we going home?"

"No, you're just in time," he grins holding out a hand for her. She groans again but lets him pull her to her feet – the sooner he shows her whatever planet or moon or star he wants her to see, the sooner she gets to curl up in her bed with fried chicken. He steps forward into her personal space and she wonders if the butterflies will ever stop when he does that but he seems completely unfazed, zipping up her neon pink hoodie to the neck and giving her arms a quick rub. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," she answers with an eye roll, lining herself up with telescope. He comes up behind her adjusting her stance and guiding the telescope round a little, tipping it towards the moon. He doesn't know every time he does that, every time his body moulds perfectly against hers her breath hitches and she feels like she can't breathe. He doesn't know when his hand brushes against hers it feels like the first time, every time. She tries not to think _why_ (because she might just see it lasting if she does) and instead holds air inside her lungs until she thinks she might just explode. She's always trying to stop the butterflies.

"Ok, take a look," he whispers, his breath lapping at the side of her neck reminding her just how close she allows him to get now. A little sceptically she does as he asks, surprisingly without much of an argument. A small grunt here and a heel kick there just that little bit hard and she feels like she has space again. Like she's regained some of her own normalcy.

"Ok, I'm looking," she sighs, "What am I looking at?"

"Wait for it."

"I better not feel _anything_ behind me."

"Seriously Sam, just wait."

She sighs again, heavier and more exasperated than before because Sam Puckett really does have very little patience. But then she sees it and she gasps, a sharp intake of breath that elicits a smile from the dark haired boy just beside her, his arm still draped around her slouched back.

"Holy crap!" she exclaims, "What the heck is that?"

"It's an asteroid," he divulges and she pulls back just long enough to regard him with a look of pleasant surprise.

"An asteroid?"

"Yup. A really big ass asteroid. Like the biggest we've seen in 33 years. Especially this close."

"It's gone!" she says and frowns, pulling back from the telescope, "You didn't get to see it."

"It's ok," he shrugs like it's no big deal.

"Why? Is it coming back?"

She bends over again peering through the expensive equipment in an otiose attempt to find the fast moving object again.

"Nah. Probably won't see one that close again for a while," he shrugs, hunkering down to follow the telescopes tilt to the sky.

"Dude, that was awesome. Can you imagine how much damage that thing could do? I can imagine Bruce Willis following it with a spaceship," she laughs and when she turns she is met with an intense pair of hazel eyes gazing up at her. He has this ridiculous grin plastered across his face like he has just won the lottery or some chiz so she asks him.

"What?"

"I love you," he says and there's nothing else to follow. She gasps for a second time that night but it's softer this time and she's fixated on his face, desperately trying to figure out if this is some sort of lame joke.

"What?" she repeats dumbly.

"I love you Sam. And I know it's crazy because you're kind of crazy. And you're kind of mean. Like tonight I was trying to show you something pretty special and all you could do was moan about it because unless you're clued in you're not interested. And you're violent – that hasn't stopped even though I hold your hand now. And you turn me into a babbling idiot with no smart comebacks…kind of like right now. But I love you. And that thing you asked earlier? I would. Without thinking."

He finishes like he has ran out of breath and he's looking at her expectantly as if his revelation is the equivalent to the asteroid hitting the earth that very second. She's not quite sure what the appropriate response is even if her heart screams at her to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him like the world is indeed ending. She finds herself reeling back though mouth slightly agape at the turn of events. Clearing her throat she turns her attention back to the ever-darkening night sky.

"Took you long enough," she says and while it has every intention of being a jab she falters a little, her lips quirking at the corners curling into a tell tale smile. He chuckles gently, his chest jumping against her arm with every breathy laugh and she knows then how close he is to pulling her to him. When he does his lips landing clumsily somewhere between her ear and neck and she shivers as he mumbles words there.

"Kiss me and tell me you love me you nub."

She wants to rebuke him for the order let alone the audacity of calling her a name solely reserved for his geeky tendencies. She wants to see what it's like to play the game on her end for a while, see what it feels like to have all of the power and none of the vulnerability for a change. But Sam feels her natural reaction turn from being cruel and teasing to what literally comes naturally. So she turns her head and kisses him softly on the lips before looking straight in his eyes and returning the sentiment with a gentle whisper.

It would seem now for Sam, love comes naturally.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Ok first off, it's a stormy night outside and I'm extremely worried about my sunflowers :( I have two - Bill and Bob. I lost Bob in a horrible wind related accident two days ago and I'm still a little tender about the whole ordeal. None of this is relevent to the chapter but I needed to get that off my chest because dammit, those flowers are like my children!

Secondly this isn't beta'd. Yeah. Sorry.

Thirdly I am not back. I am a figment of your imagination mostly because I still have 7000 words of a thesis to write. (Sssh don't tell anyone, but I may have an iLLM one-shot floating around soon too).

Fourthly, I have no knowledge of the cosmo's but I do know there is an asteroid due to fly very close by in November. Asteroids scare me. I will use Bruce Willis as a shield.

Fifthly, this isn't up to standard. Sorry.

Sixthly I like the word sixthly.

Seventhly I love Seddie. And the song that inspired this chapter - Set my heart on fire by sons and lovers. Check it out on youtube :)


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